


Past Lives

by earthseraph



Series: Past Lives Verse [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author!Bucky, Because Bucky's Supposed To Dead, Canon-Typical Violence, Demisexual Biromantic!Steve, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Petting, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Minor Character Death, Post-DADT, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-DADT, Pre-Established Relationship, Presumed Killed In Action, Sam and Riley own a dog and are very domestic, Something Happens To Bucky, TWS!Bucky Barnes, Timeskip, professor!steve, switching POV, temporary break-up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-04-19 07:55:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 46,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4738631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthseraph/pseuds/earthseraph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steven Grant Rogers: Male, 32 years old, former Army Captain, present day art professor at NYU. </p>
<p>James Grant: Male, 33 years old, mysterious writer of a book that sounds a lot like Steve and Bucky’s life, told from Bucky’s point of view. </p>
<p>But Bucky’s dead. He died in action during the Iraq war- didn’t he?</p>
<p>(Or: The one where Bucky’s supposed to be dead, Steve’s supposed to have moved on, but there’s a book and two very amused friends.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from: [Past Lives By Borns](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cux2qJjApGA)
> 
> Thanks so much to [Megan](http://gingerwarlock.tumblr.com/) for helping me out with the military details, the fic wouldn't be the same without your knowledge. 
> 
> Also: All those tags are pretty much all the tags for this entire fic. If you want to know what to expect you can read the tags, and if you have questions please feel free to message [Me](http://pesmenos.tumblr.com/faq).
> 
> Oh yeah: This fic has a definite ending, I've written up to chapter 7, and I have a pretty good guess about how many chapter's there's actually going to be. It may or may not be less than that 20 I placed. I'm also going to be doing updates every Sunday, and if that changed it will be noted in the summary.
> 
> Thank you and enjoy!
> 
> (No Beta, all mistakes are my own.)

**2005, Bucky**

Bucky hates sweat. Sweat and sand. There’s nothing more he could possibly hate than sweat and sand right now, he can’t even hate that aunt he has that pinches his cheeks like he’s still a chubby twelve year old because all the hate in the world is directed on sweat and sand. 

He has sweat running down his face and neck, he can feel his uniform sticking to his back from where sweat drenched through the fabric, he can even feel sweat uncomfortably running down his thighs right now, but he really doesn’t want to think about that. Then there’s the sand. Sand that stuck in his ears and between his toes, sand that makes him itchy where it mixes with his sweat, sand that he thinks will never completely wash out of his hair. 

He hates it, and he wants to pout. But there’s fucking Steve, sitting next to him keeping watch on the entrance of their base laughing at some lame joke like he dork he is. He wants to pout and hate the sweat and sand but he can’t because Steve’s making him laugh. 

Bucky nudges Steve in the ribs with the butt of his rifle and snorts, “Stop, they’re gonna separate us again and it’s gonna’ be all your fault.”

“That was only once, Buck,” Steve says, that stupid smile still plastered on his face, “And that was your fault ‘cause you were the one that made _me_ laugh.”

Bucky shrugs, not exactly admitting to being the reason but not denying it either, “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Stevie.”

He remembers that moment fondly, they were only a year into the Iraq war, both of them scared shitless but trying to get by none the less. Steve was across from him doing the same thing they were doing now- keeping watch- and Bucky couldn’t take the silence. He could read Steve’s every emotion since they’ve been friends since pretty much birth and decided to do something about the little dip between his eyebrows. He remembers nudging Steve’s leg with his boot and spewing off some stupid joke that made Steve laugh with his whole body and Bucky smile like an idiot. Of course they were separated after, but the laughter was worth it. 

“What would help me sleep at night is a thermal blanket,” Steve mutters, leaning back against the rock they perched themselves on, sun glasses pulled over his eyes, staring off somewhere past the desert sand. 

“Just you wait,” Bucky says, mirroring Steve and leaning himself against the rock, giving in to the sun and pulling his own sunglasses down- he thought they made him look like a douchebag but he’d rather that than have to squint every time he looked towards the sun- “we’re due home in a couple weeks for Christmas, Ma’s gonna have all the blankets you could hope for, and” he looked over his shoulder to make sure nobody was walking past their rock that could possibly overhear them, “we get to share my room like old times. Just you, me, and a couple of blankets. Clothing optional.”

Bucky could see Steve’s blush through his sunburned skin and let a grin spread across his face. He moves himself back into to a more “platonic” position and watches the sand move in the occasional gust of wind.

They’ve been here for over two years already, moving up ranks, learning new things about themselves and the world around them. It was okay, for the most part. After they got used to the far-off sounds of explosions and gunfire, after they got used to bloodshed and death. After they got used to a lot of things, being in war became to being like second nature to them. It wasn’t anything more than a set of rules, listening to higher ranked comrades, and keeping an eye out for themselves and their fellow troops. 

Most of the time there wasn’t a mission to go on. It was like they were now, him and Steve or someone else, keeping an eye on base; doing other things their commander asked of them. But when they did go on a mission, they had to get used to killing and hurting people that may or may not have been with the rogue militants. 

He was more okay with it since they made him shoot from high up, but he knew Steve was still a little touchy about having to kill people. They didn’t enlist to kill people, and he knew that, they enlisted to help their country and keep families everywhere safe, but killing was just a side effect of war. And like everything else, like the sand and sweat and heat, they’d eventually get used to it. 

Bucky sighs, propping a foot up on one of the rock’s edges, “How do you think the weather is over in Brooklyn?”

“Snowy,” Steve states, simple as ever.

“Unlike this literal hell hole.” He thinks if any weather could relate so distinctly to hell that it would be this particular desert. Hotter than a Brooklyn Summer during the day, and icy cold at night. Two totally different temperatures that his body still didn’t know how to deal with. 

Steve shifts against the rock, hugging his rifle to his chest like a shield, “It could be worse,”

“How so?” Because really, _how so_.

“It could be raining at night, which would make us freeze, then stop in the morning and boil us in the humidity.”

Bucky shrugs a shoulder, “There is that.” he shifts again to get more comfortable when he hears the telltale sounds of boots shifting the sand around behind him. He turns his head to look over the rock at who was coming, and almost chokes on his spit when he throws himself off the rock, pulling Steve down with him.

They both push their sunglasses up their heads, saluting with practiced precision before dropping their hands to their sides, and standing tall. 

“Lieutenant Barnes, Lieutenant Rogers,” Colonel Fury nods to them, offering them a salute, “at ease, soldiers.”

They both drop their stance, still standing up straight, addressing the Colonel by name and rank at the same time. He can tell Steve’s as stunned as he is to see the Colonel standing in front of them. Usually, Colonel Fury stays in his tent unless something dire’s happening. He never roams with the other lesser soldiers, and hardly ever comes to the front lines where he and Steve watch. 

Fury leaves his face emotionless and instead turns to face Bucky, “You’re needed in my tent, Lieutenant Barnes, you’re excused from this shift.” 

“Sir, yes, sir.” Bucky says, nodding, swiftly turning away from the Colonel. He catches Steve’s eyes as he turns and feels dread seep in his bones at the worried look they hold. He tries to put them out of his mind as he goes but butterflies none the less fill his stomach, he knows something bad is on the horizons, something that warranted a visit from Colonel Fury, something that he’s soon to be involved in.

Bucky shakes his head and keeps walking, trying to tell himself that it’s all going to be okay, that he’ll see Steve in the mess hall after he’s done with the meeting, telling himself lie after lie with each step he takes to the Colonel’s tent because he knows, deep in his heart, that he won’t be seeing Steve for a while.

* * *

* * *

“Wait,” Bucky says, letting himself fall back onto one of the ammunition crates right behind him, “you want me to do what?” he shakes his head, then remembers both his training and manners, “- sir.”

The Colonel sighs and folds his hands in his lap, leaning further back into his seat, “There’s a militant force that’s too hidden for us to just ambush, you’re the best sniper we have, and there’s no better time to take out a threat than the present.” He explains again, like repeating his words will clear the confusion in Bucky’s head- which, for clarification, they’re not. 

Bucky shakes his head, looking up at Fury, “But I’m just a Lieutenant, I’ve never gone on solo missions, sir.”

“But you have the training?” Fury asks, raising his eyebrow expectantly. 

“Well, yes, sir.” Of course he has the training, they all do. 

“Then you know how these things go. Besides, you won’t be completely alone.”

Bucky eyes Fury, unsure and looking for the lie he know’s is hidden beneath the Colonel’s sunglasses,“I won’t be? Sir.”

Bucky’s getting awfully tired of saying, _sir_.

“No,” Fury says, simple as ever, “you’re going to be on a comm at all times, we’re going to tell you exactly what to you. We’re not pushing you into the deep end without a little help.”

Bucky can feel dread filling his stomach, dread for the unknown he’s about to take part in. Dread for a going on a mission that seems to have more to it than ‘a few threatening militants’, dread for all the secrets he’s going to be holding when he comes back because only people of a certain clearance can know, dread for the fact that he never considered going on a mission without the rest of his platoon. But most of all, dread for Steve. 

Steve who’s still on his shift, probably still sitting on that rock with his stupid sunglasses over his face. Steve who can’t know what he’s going to do but will love him anyway. Steve who he might not see again if this mission goes wrong. 

But he doesn’t want to think about that. About the _what if_ that comes with everyone’s life when they enlist. He doesn’t want to think about that and he’s not going to. 

“When do I leave, sir?” Bucky asks, hoping he can maybe catch a glance of Steve’s face before he goes off to shoot people whose name’s he doesn’t even know because that’s above his ranking. 

The Colonel looks at the watch on his wrist, “At 1930.”

Bucky tries to mask his disappointment with a nod- Steve’s shift doesn’t end until 2000 and it’s already close to 1830- and gets up from the crate, “Where should I go for now, sir?”

“Get your rucksack ready, then meet me back here by 1900, you’ll get you your ammunition and comm, and we’ll explain the mission in further detail.”

Bucky nods again, “Dismissed, sir?”

Fury nods, “Dismissed.”

Bucky walks out of the tent as fast as he can. Let out shaky breaths when the flap’s closed behind him. He looks to where he knows Steve still is, a mile or so from where he is now. He could run over there, tell Steve ‘goodbye’ hastily then run back to his tent and get his things ready to leave. He could get that all done and still have some time before 1930, but he doesn’t want to worry Steve. He knows if he runs over there now Steve will read the dread off him like a book and immediately worry. He knows Steve will know it had something to do with Fury and that Steve will probably stick his nose where it doesn’t belong, get reprimanded for questioning a higher up or get dishonorably discharged for showing more than platonic feelings for Bucky. 

So, instead, he sends a longing look to that stupid rock- he prays to whatever’s listening in this hell hole that they keep Steve safe, to forget about his safety for the time being and keep an eye on Steve who will no doubt notice Bucky’s absence by dinner- and turns on his heel, walking briskly to his tent like the man on a mission he now is. 

He walks and walk, calves burning with the amount of force he’s putting into _not_ running back to see Steve for one last goodbye. He walks and prays and hopes because he can already feel how hard the road ahead of him is going to be, and ignores the lump in his throat and butterflies in his stomach. 

He has to be strong. If not for himself and his country then for Steve and his family. He’s _going_ to be strong and get this mission done. He’s going to do it because he’s going to come back and see Steve and maybe kiss him in the dark and in a few weeks they’re going home for Christmas- which, hell yes, it’s been awhile since he’s had a proper Barnes plus one Rogers family dinner. He’s going to do whatever Fury asks and he’s going to come out of it alive. 

He is. 

If he could only believe in his own words.

* * *

* * *

“Sergeant Dugan will take you to the rendezvous point,” Fury tells him, his finger dragging slowly across the map in front of them, “after this point,” his finger stops, “you’re on your own Barnes.”

Bucky looks over at Sergeant- _call me Dum Dum_ \- Dugan and eyes him suspiciously. He doesn’t completely trust the man in front of him, especially with that odd mustache of his resting on his upper lip like it was going to come to life any second now. 

“Don’t worry, kid,” Sergeant Dugan says with a casual shrug of his shoulders, “you’re in capable hands. And if you need help- like _really_ , life or death situation- need help you can always call in to us on your comm.”

“But that’s only in dire situations, Barnes,” Fury interjects, his finger now pointing at Bucky instead of the map.

Bucky nods, agreeing with them to just agree, not that he necessarily likes or agrees with what they’re telling him. He’d much rather someone else go on this mission. Someone that has more experience than his two years, someone that’s actually done this before. He knows he could speak up and tell Fury something, be he also knows that Fury could shoot the ‘first time for everything’ speech back at him, and he honestly just wants to get this over with. 

He’s not even in some dugout in the sand yet, but he can already feel grains in his boots and up his nose. 

He hasn’t even left yet and he wants to be back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your first solo run right?” Jones asks, putting the Humvee into drive.
> 
> Bucky nods, “Yeah, first time for everything right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd, all mistakes are my own.

The night’s cold when they leave. Stars and moon high up in the purple sky, sand dunes looking menacing in the nighttime shadows. He can hear laughing and loud chatter from the mess hall and stares at it longingly, wondering who Steve’s sitting with tonight, wondering if _Steve_ wonders where he is right now. He tries to pull his eyes away from the hall before Sergeant Dugan notices, but he fails. 

“Don’t worry kid,” he says, slapping Bucky on the back with a heavy hand, “you’ll be back with your men before you know it, you won’t even start to miss the place, that’s how fast this mission’s gonna’ go down.”

Bucky looks over at the Sergeant with a questioning eyebrow, “You really think that?” That Bucky will actually make it out of this thing unscathed, that Bucky will actually make it out _alive_. 

Dugan shrugs, they walk in silence for a few moments. Both of them trudging through the sand, the only sounds that accompany them are the sounds of their shoes shifting in the sand, the occasional gust of wind, and the far off sound of men laughing in the mess hall. 

“I think,” Dugan starts, scratching his moustache before talking again, “that I’ve seen your stats from training, that I’ve seen how well you can handle yourself and a gun in battle, and that you’re the best one for this mission.” Dugan shrugs, eyes facing forward instead of at Bucky, “You’re cool and collected, you’re not trigger happy- and most of these guys are, thrill of the war or whatever- and you’ve got some of that infantry training under your belt.”

And it’s true. Bucky’s done some of the requirements to become an infantry man. That doesn’t mean he’s cool as a cucumber right now, though.

“But I’ve never done something like this before.” Bucky says, a little pout forming on his lips. He’s nervous and worried and nothing that Dugan says right now will help him. He knows what he needs, _who_ he needs a pep-talk from, but who and what he needs right now is having dinner with some of their other men. 

“First time for everything, right kid?” Dugan chuckles, slapping him on the back again. 

Bucky nods, again, agreeing to just agree. He knows that when he gets back from this mission- if he gets back, because he’s being honest with himself and the odds of him dying are mighty high- and they send him on another one, he’ll be better off than he is now.

“Ah,” Dugan says, spreading his arms wide in the night, smiling like a father that’s holding his newborn at the vehicle in front of them, “there’s my baby.”

Bucky snorts at Dugan’s comment, the worry in his stomach starting to ease away, “Baby?”

“Yeah, she’s the safest, quietest, best, Humvee in this place. And-” Dugan says, leaning into Bucky like he’s sharing a secret, “she’s got the best team with her.” he winks at Bucky before running to the Humvee and patting it’s hood, cooing at it for a second before knocking on the window.

The door to the Humvee opens and a dark skinned man pops out, giving Dugan a friendly slap on the shoulder and a wave to Bucky, “You the kid going on his first solo?”

Bucky nods, throwing a salute to his fellow, “Lieutenant Barnes,”

The man waves him off, “Staff Sergeant Jones, don’t do that saluting shit with me, makes me feel like I’m old.” 

Bucky drops the position.

“You are steadily reaching Fury’s age,” Dugan says, nodding and stroking his moustache like it holds the secrets of the world.

“Hell no!” Jones says, giving an exaggerated shivering.

“Just you wait,” Dugan continues, “in a few years you’ll be doing the whole scaring new recruits and hiding behind your sunglasses even when it’s dark as fuck outside.”

Jones snorts, and moves to get back into the Humvee, “I said it once, I’m going to say it again, hell no. And we should move out before we get behind schedule.”

Bucky gets into the Humvee behind Dugan and lets out a shaky breath.

This is all real. He’s going on a solo mission, a mission alone without any speedy backup. Sure he’s got a comm in his ear, his pack, and guns, but that’s it. 

He’s alone. 

“You’re gonna do just fine, kid.” Dugan tells him from where he’s settled into the passenger seat. 

“Your first solo run right?” Jones asks, putting the Humvee into drive.

Bucky nods, “Yeah, first time for everything right?” he says with a laugh, but it’s shaky like the breath he just took. 

Jones nods from the driver’s seat, “Don’t worry, you’re gonna’ do just fine. They briefed me on what’s going down and it seems pretty simple, like a cakewalk of sorts.”

“A cakewalk,” Bucky mutters, pulling his rucksack off his back and setting it next to him, he might as well get comfortable. 

“All you’re doing is taking out some threats, nothing more, nothing less. You got the training for it so it should be, like I said, a cakewalk.”

Bucky pulls the gun case close to his chest and lets the rumble of the Humvee soothe his mind. He leans further back into the seat and lets his head loll back, closing his eyes. He sighs to himself, it’s going to be a long few days.

* * *

* * *

Bucky didn’t realize he had fallen asleep until he felt an insistent tapping on his shoulder. For a moment, one good moment, he thought it was Steve trying to wake him up before they were late for class, but then he remembered. He was in Iraq, he was going on his first solo mission, Steve doesn’t know, Steve’s safe- for the most part. 

“Barnes,” Dugan says, voice hushed, tapping turning into shaking, “rise and shine, Barnes.”

Bucky opens his eyes and sighs, pushing Dugan’s hand off so he can move his own to rub at his eyes. 

“We’re here.”

He sighs again and lets his hands fall into his lap, “Give me a minute to wake up before you push me into enemy lines, okay?”

Dugan nods, probably only playing nice with him because it’s his first run, “You remember what you have to do, right?”

“Go over it once more?” Bucky asks, stalling. 

“From here you’re going north ten miles until you reach a thatch of shrubbery and rocks, from there you’re going east until you have sight of the building Fury showed you- you remember the building?”

Bucky nods, he can already feel the heat from the sun on his back, but that’s why they left base when the moon was out: so he could walk ten miles in the cold desert air.

“When you have the building in sight, settle down somewhere you can set up your rifle,” Dugan moves back and places the case in his lap, it must have fallen while they were driving, “and when you get your shot, take it.”

“Make sure you’re not seen,” Jones adds from the front seat, “you’re heading into enemy lines with unmarked bullets, we can deny it all if you’re not seen, if you’re seen..” Jones trails off.

“What happens if I’m seen?” Bucky asks, because he never thought of that. He’s thought of living and dying but nothing in between those things.

Dugan shrugs with a sigh, getting up off the floor to sit in the seat across from Bucky, “if you’re seen and not caught and somehow we get you back, you’ll probably be discharged-”

“Honorably,” Jones adds, “that’s assuming you don’t fuck up too majorly.”

“I won’t,” Bucky says, confident in his shooting skills. And only that.

“Like I was saying,” Dugan says, raising his voice and shooting a glare at Jones, “you’ll be honorably discharged and they might relocate you. Keep you in witness protection for a while until all’s done and over with.”

“Meaning the war,” Bucky says slowly. He can’t think about getting relocated, hidden, until this war’s over. The war that’s only just started, according to their commanders. He can’t think about that, about being away from his family- being away from Steve. 

“Yeah, the war.” Dugan nods slowly, he pats Bucky on the shoulder twice, “but don’t worry we believe in you.”

Bucky looks up, eyes flicking between Dugan and where Jones is sitting in the driver’s seat, “Has this kind of thing happened before? Someone going on a solo mission and being relocated?”

“Well.. yeah,” Jones says, turning around in the seat to look at Bucky, “nobody talks about it, though, because nobody can, but it’s happened.”

“But it won’t happen to you, kid.” Dugan says, a smile stretched across his face, “now, get out of the Humvee and go get that shot.”

Bucky can feel the nervousness coming back to his stomach, but gets up nonetheless. He sets the rifle aside and picks up his rucksack, adjusting it on his back for the long walk ahead. He throws a salute to Jones, who returns it and smiles, and shakes Dugan’s hand. 

Dugan smiles, letting go of his hand to slap him on the shoulder before opening the door for him, “See you in a little bit, kid.”

“See you in a few,” Bucky says back, more for the reassurance for himself than anything, and hops out of the Humvee. 

The cold air of the night touches his skin, Bucky looks back to the Humvee and waves, hoping someone can see him in the dark. He swings the rifle case over his shoulder, and pulls his cowl up over his face. 

The night’s dark and purple, he can hear some sort of desert animal crying in this distance, and the quiet shift of sand at his feet. Everything’s eerily calm, _like the calm before the storm_ , he thinks. He looks back at the retreating lights of the Humvee and sighs. 

He’s on his own here


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I see,” Bucky squints, “lights?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> un-beta'd.

It feels like he’s been walking for days. His feet are sore in his boots, the rucksack and rifle case are an unwanted weight on his back, and the sun’s steadily rising in the sky, heat unfortunately coming with it. 

He called in hours ago when he got to the mountain’s rendezvous point, back when the sun was still down and the chill was nipping at the uncovered parts of his face. Now, with a slight sheen of sweat glazing his skin, the building he’s supposed to stake out is in his sights. 

Bucky trudges up rocks, moving branches out of the way with the hand not holding on to the rifle case’s strap, narrowly avoiding tripping over some rocks hidden beneath sand. He’s panting by the time he gets to the farthest point of the mountain, closest to the building. He sets the case and his rucksack down by his feet and leans against a boulder, pushing his cowl down and wiping the sheen of sweat off his face.

He gives himself a moment to collect himself before pressing two fingers into the comm on his ear, “Barnes, to base.”

A moment passes, static shifts in his ear, “This is Sergeant Dugan,”

“At the rendezvous point, waiting for target.” He looks up at the building, wondering just when he’ll see this target of his. He has enough MREs and water for a week, but being out in the open is what worries him the most. Sure he can make shelter and fend off any sort of animal that attacks him, but the scorching heat and cold winds in this altitude are going to pierce through any shelter he makes. 

The static shifts again, “Check in at noon.” Dugan says, no nonsense. Somebody must be listening.

“Roger that.” Bucky mutters back, removing his fingers off the comm he know is going to be silent until noon. He looks at his watch and sighs, he has five hours until any contact with another human happens. 

Getting off the boulder he looks around. The terrain’s mostly bushes, rocks, and sand with the occasional dry-looking tree. He has enough space to lay on the ground for both shooting and resting, and the shrubs will cover him enough that he doesn’t have to do any make-shift building. 

He eases himself to the ground. pulling the case into his lap, and opens it, sighing to himself as he touches the barrel with the tips of his fingers. All it takes is one shot with this thing to complete his mission, one shot and a call in to base and he’ll be back with Steve. That’s all he has to do.

He sets the rifle up slowly and methodically, not wanting to set up the gun too quickly where he’ll have nothing to do but wait for hours. He stares into the scope, rifle already set up on it’s tripod, and scoots it to the left. He stares into the scope again, making he’ll be able to take the shot as efficiently and quickly as possible without hitting anyone who’s not on his kill list.

(The list consists of one person and he’s going to keep it that way.)

Content with the setup of his rifle, he rolls over onto his back, getting sand in his hair and probably down his back. He stares at the sky, purple night turning into shades of pink and orange with the occasional thin cloud. As much as he’d rather be back in the states right now, nothing can beat the early morning or late night sky of this sandbox. There’s colors that he thought could only be made by Steve mixing paints, there’s stars he’s only seen in books and online, there’s land for miles and miles not touched by mankind and their machines.

He admits that it’s a culture shock from what he’s used to back in Brooklyn. No people talking loudly as they walk by, no sounds of dogs barking in this distance, no warped sounds of music coming from passing cars. Nothing. Just the silence of his thoughts, or if he was on base the controlled volume of his men. 

And right now, in the pink and orange start of the morning, it’s silent other than his thoughts and the occasional animal. He doesn’t know how many people live in that little blown out town across from him- he wasn’t exactly briefed in detail, and he doesn’t think Fury trusts him all too much- but none of them seem to be up. Either that, or it’s actually a ghost town and Fury has bad information. 

Bucky rolls back onto his stomach and presses his eye to the scope, looking over at the building again. He moves away and pulls his rucksack towards him, pillowing to his chest because he might as well get comfortable, it was going to be a long morning.

* * *

* * *

Two days passed. 

Two days of radio silence from the building across from him, two days of pouting at the MREs because they always taste like cardboard spiced with salt to him, two days of packing up and walking a few miles away when nature called. Two days of boring, hot, hell. 

The sun’s setting when Bucky takes another look through his scope, he absentmindedly scratches at his chin- he’s already in dire need of a shave and a shower- and sighs. Nothing. 

He’s not sure how long they’re going to leave him out here when the building he’s watching seems to have nobody in it, like every soul in the building up and left before he got here. He doesn’t think they’d leave him out here to die, but he is in enemy territory and he doesn’t think Fury would be nice enough to send men to give him more supplies. Fury’s more of a ‘work with what you have’ kinda guy, and all Bucky has is a few more days of food and water, the rifle in front of his face and a gun on his thigh, and his own sanity. 

Sanity that’s probably going to run out soon, if he’s being honest with himself. 

He wonders constantly what Steve’s doing. Has the big lug noticed he’s gone? Does he miss him? Has he punched Fury for not telling him anything, yet? He lets his mind drift a few times during the day to just think about Steve and not about how absolutely _nothing_ is happening. 

He thinks about the bad military issued commercials on TV that make them all groan and laugh at the same time. He thinks about new strategies to try and beat the Navy in the next field day of sorts that happens- _try_ being the key word because he doesn’t know how to beat those fuckers for the life of him. He thinks about his mom and if her hair’s greying yet. Wonders if Becca’s found her first boyfriend or girlfriend while he’s over here- he wanted to be the one to vet them, but he doesn’t think that’s going to happen. He wonders about his dad and if he watches the news every day in the basement, paying close attention to anything army related. 

He thinks and thinks and the sun goes down completely (when he looks away from his scope the sky’s now a purple instead of that dusty red and orange)- and he sees

he sees

he sees a light?

Bucky looks away from his scope and to his right, frowning. There’s lights in his distance. Lights that look like flashlights moving in the distance. They could be fireflies but he doesn’t think those lights are the same as the ones he’d seen when his mom and dad took him and Becca out to the country one hot summer years ago, and he’s not even sure there is fireflies in the sandbox. 

He presses his fingers to his comm, whispering, “Barnes to base,”

The static shifts, “This is Jones,”

“Jones,” Bucky whispers, sitting back on his haunches, free hand going towards the gun at his thigh, “did you guys send backup?”

The lights are coming closer. 

“No,” Jones says, he sounds like he sat up abruptly, “why?”

“I see,” Bucky squints, “lights?”

The static shifts, Jones is probably moving, “Lights? What kind of lights?”

“They look like flashlights, coming from directly right of me, not in or around the building.”

There’s more static, voices echoing behind Jones’, “You said the building had been silent and still for the last few days?”

Bucky nods to himself, getting into a crouching position, his stomach fluttering with nervousness, “Yeah, like a ghost town.”

“Get out of there, Barnes,” Jones says, and now he’s talking to someone not Bucky, “-compromised, there’s a mole, we need extraction, tell Fury.”

Bucky slowly leans back down, keeping an eye on the nearing lights. He takes the rifle off its tripod and throws it over his shoulder with the graciously provided strap. He ignores the case and his makeshift shelter for putting his rucksack on. 

“Moving back to rendezvous point one,” Bucky says, his voice still hushed, and turns around. There’s lights that way, too, “Shit.”

“Barnes,” Jones says, his voice urgent, “Barnes we need you to get out of enemy territory and into our lines. We can’t go to you, you have to come to us. Got it?”

“They’re coming in from both sides,” Bucky looks down the ledge, there’s rocks and a drop off but if he can get beneath them then he can get back to the rendezvous point.

He really doesn’t want to meet the lights. 

“Do you have a way out?”

Bucky nods, edging his way to the ledge, “Yeah,”

“If not, shoot your way out,” Jones says, “you’d rather have kills on your mind than being a prisoner of war, okay, Barnes? Trust me.”

Bucky nods again, his stomach churning with the thought of killing people and jumping off this ledge. 

“Don’t have any mercy towards them,” Jones says, the static back in full swing along with voices behind his, “they’re not going to have any mercy towards you.”

“Okay,” Bucky says looking at the nearing lights before jumping off the ledge. He tucks himself into a roll, rucksack taking some of the hit, rifle hitting him in the ribs- he’s going to have a bruise later. 

He hears a voice screaming commands in a language not English- _Arabic_ , he mind supplies, trying to be helpful- and shoes that aren’t his shift in the rocks and sand above him. He breaks off in a run. 

They’re after him.

 

“I’m going to be with you the whole time,” Jones says. 

Bucky nods, panting out an ‘okay’ as he runs. There’s rocks and dips in the earth, he trips countless times, the lights are still in his peripheral vision. They yell and shout at him. He keeps running.

* * *

* * *

Bucky’s been running and hiding and running again for God knows how long. 

The night acts as his camouflage, the moon his guide back to the rendezvous point, adrenaline and fear keep him moving, Steve’s face his motivation.

He jumps off the edge of the mountain, only a few more miles to go. 

The lights are still trailing behind him. They scream. They scream _his name_.

Bucky trips, surprised, grunting as he goes down, cursing as he scrambles back up, Jones says something in his ear- he ignores it. 

He thanks whatever God that’s listening in these parts for Steve putting him through the hell that was running track in high school. He never knew he’d need it this much, but if he could go back in time, to his high school self, he’d tell him two things:

1.Kiss Steve sooner  
2.Keeping running track because you don’t know how much you’re going to need it

He knows, realistically, that he’s going to need water soon. Water and a moment to take a few breaths. But for now, with adrenaline running through his veins, he’s okay. He can make it to the rendezvous point, it’s just like running a marathon. _Running a marathon in the dark, with rocks and sand, and lights and people that know your name following you._ He shakes off that negative thought for a more positive one, it’s just a simple marathon. The terrain is rocky because it’s cross country, the lights behind him are street lights guiding his way, the people screaming his name are his family. He nods to himself, breath running out. That’s exactly what everything is. 

Through the blood rushing in his ears and the wind he’s picking up from running, he hears Jones. 

“We’re at the rendezvous point, Barnes, just waiting for you.”

Bucky pants. 

“Give me a grunt if you’re close,” 

Bucky looks ahead of him and grunts once, then looks behind him, the lights are nearing. 

The static shifts, “If you’re a couple miles away, grunt once.” 

Bucky wants to sigh, cry, maybe throw himself on the ground and surrender himself to the lights, but he can’t. So he grunts, there’s maybe two miles between him and the point, he can do this. He can do this for his family, for Steve. He can do anything for them, he can do anything for Steve. He wants to marry Steve, it’s not legal yet, but there’s been talk. He just wants to give Steve a ring. Something nice and simple that matches Steve. Steve can carry the ring on his tags and tell their men that he has a lady back home- Bucky won’t mind, as long as Steve has something that makes their love more tangible, more _real_.

“We see you, Barnes,” Jones says, the static gone with how close they are. 

Bucky feels pinpricks in the back of his eyes. He can see lights from multiple Humvee's, he can see his men- people he can trust- he can almost see home. 

The lights behind him scream his name again, Bucky wants to cry. 

“Barnes,” Jones says, “they know your name.”

 _I know_ , Bucky wants to scream but he’s so close, so close to being away from the enemy line. 

Most of the lights stop, a few follow. 

He trips over a stray rock and scrambles back up, the line’s so close, he keeps running. He feels something pierce his left arm. He trips again, he wills himself back up, and throws himself over the invisible line. A line that he can’t see but is written on maps, a line that makes the lights retreat with a nasty snarl of his name, a line that he collapses on. His rucksack finally weighing him down, rifle digging into his ribs, his mouth dry and blood running down his arm. 

“Barnes,” a familiar voice- Dugan- says, “we got you, Barnes, we got you.”

“They knew my name,” Bucky babbles, tears finally coming, fatigue setting in, his muscles screaming, the wound in his arm hurting so much it makes him want to pass out.

“I’m sorry, kid,” Dugan says, his voice full of remorse and regret, “let’s go get you patched up.”

Bucky thinks he says something, maybe Steve’s name, but Dugan hushes him as he strips Bucky of the rifle that caused this all and his rucksack. Dugan picks him up like a bride, taking him into the Humvee. 

Dugan smooths his hair back, he leans into the touch, something comforting that’s not a hard rock or the lights that chased him for miles on end, “Sleep now, kid, you got a long way ahead of you.”

Bucky nods, ignoring the medic messing with his arm, and passes out. 

The lights follow him in his dreams.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s twenty one when he makes a life altering decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd, all mistakes are my own.

He’s six and he’s throwing his first punch. 

His knuckles are stinging, the kid he punched throws a swing back at him, the blonde kid he’s standing up for pushes the kid down.

That’s the first time he meets Steve Rogers. 

Steve Rogers with sky blue eyes, a bloody lip, and the look of an angry wet cat.

* * *

* * *

He’s eleven and it’s the first time he’s felt this way. 

He’s sitting next to Steve on his bed, their history textbooks open on their laps. He can smell Steve’s shampoo, his stomach shifts, he can see the glisten on Steve’s lips where he just put chapstick on because it’s cold and his lips are dry, his heart beats faster, he can see Steve’s eye lashes brush against his cheeks, he wants to kiss Steve. 

He scoots down the bed a little, closer to Steve. 

Steve looks up and smiles at him.

* * *

* * *

He’s fourteen the first time he attends a funeral. 

The casket on his shoulder weighs more than it should, the tears in his eyes burn rolling down his cheeks, he wishes this didn’t happen. He wishes this didn’t happen to Steve’s mom. He can’t see Steve from where he’s holding the casket because Steve’s on the other side, doing the same thing he’s doing. He wants to hold Steve’s hand, he wants to hold Steve.

He knows it’s going to be hard. He knows Steve’s going to be upset for a long time. He knows his mom already has the papers to become Steve’s legal guardian all filled out- she’s had them filled out since Sarah told her months ago, months before she sat Bucky down and told him- months before Sarah was diagnosed with terminal cancer. 

They put the coffin down, Bucky takes Steve’s hand when they step back, away from the casket. 

Steve’s eyes are grey like the clouds should be if this were a movie, but still, he looks up, and smiles, like it’s Bucky that needs the comfort.

* * *

* * *

He’s sixteen the first time he kisses Steve. 

They’re home alone in the living room, the TV’s playing some sitcom Bucky can’t care to think about. He and Steve confessed their feeling to each other minutes ago, through stutters and wringing hands, there air’s heavy around them that tells him something should be happening. Steve leans in closer, he licks his lips, Steve’s eyes flick down to them. Bucky moves in and kisses him. _This_ is what should be happening.

The kiss is calm, nothing more than a brush of their lips, noses bumping and foreheads touching. Bucky pulls back and looks at Steve, a small smile playing on his own face. 

Steve’s eyes are blue and happy. His cheeks are red from blushing, his lips glossy from licking them, he smiles wide and gummy.

* * *

* * *

He’s eighteen and graduation caps are flying. 

They just graduated from high school. Him and Steve are set off to the same college, their life happy and ahead of them. Bucky can see his family in the stands, he waves to them with his diploma in hand, then runs to Steve. His gown’s flapping behind him, his cap’s falling off, his dress shoes are creasing, but he doesn’t care. He can see Steve through the crowd, bulky and blonde and waving his diploma back to Bucky’s- _their_ \- family. Bucky couldn’t be happier. 

He crashes into Steve and Steve lifts him up in his strong arms, spinning him around the gymnasium, both of them are laughing when Steve finally puts him down. He holds Steve impossibly closer, and kisses his cheek. He pulls back and smiles. 

Steve’s blushing, his cheeks red, his big hands mindless rubbing circles into Bucky’s back, he leans in and kisses his nose.

* * *

* * *

He’s nineteen when he loses his virginity. 

Steve took both of them away for a weekend. Out to the country to a little riverside B&B that Bucky knows Steve’s been saving up for- every spare dime that didn’t go to tuition or books or to giving Becca a little more spending money. They go out to a nice steak dinner, dress clothes, candles, live music and all. They both giggle the entire night, playing footsie under the table, flushed from the wine the waiter gave them thinking they were both 21- not they said otherwise.

When they get back to the room their bed has rose petals scattered across it and there’s vanilla scented candles lit around the room. Steve blushes and Bucky pulls him onto the bed by the tie. Bucky takes Steve carefully and slowly, with love and care. Kissing inside his thighs, licking at his neck, holding him close as he thrusts in with controlled rolls of his hips. Everything’s calm and slow and so loving they could both die with it. When they finish, Bucky- being the gentleman his mom raised him to be- cleans Steve up with a warm washcloth. 

Steve smiles at him gently when Bucky finally gets back in the bed and hold him close. Naked body to naked body, not sexual, but intimate.

* * *

* * *

He’s twenty one when he makes a life altering decision. 

He and Steve sit his Ma, Dad, and Becca down. They explain calmly that they’re dropping out of college, his Ma opens her mouth to speak, Bucky raises a calm hand. They continue, telling their family that they’re enlisting to go to Iraq, that the United States Army really needs men right now, that they’re going to try to go in as Officers and try to get into the same platoon. Their Ma cries, their Dad stays silent, Becca locks herself in her room. 

They hold each other’s hand. Both of them scared, afraid that this might be the wrong decision, but with their minds set. They hold each other’s hand and try to be brave while their Ma’s crying and sobbing in front of them that her boys might not come back. Trying to be brave while their Dad’s holding their Ma so delicately with a look of fear in his eyes, while Becca’s room is completely silent other than sniffles they know she’s hiding in her pillow. 

He looks at Steve. Steve smiles, it doesn’t meet his eyes.

* * *

* * *

He’s twenty two and they still haven’t beaten the Navy. 

He’s sitting as close to Steve as platonically as possible, they’re both breathless and sweaty, the men in their platoon groaning and laughing at their loss. They’re both happy and safe. They’re both competitive as fuck, but they don’t care. Not when their hearts are racing in a good way, not when they got to act like the kids they still are, not when they got to ease their backs a little and take things easy for a day. 

Steve nudges his shoulder and Bucky looks up. 

Steve’s smiling like a kid in a candy store, smiling with that familiar glint in his eye that Bucky thought he lost to the war. Steve’s smiling and everything’s okay.

* * *

* * *

He’s twenty three and there’s lights screaming his name. 

He looks to his right and there’s darkness except for the lights. He tries to move but he can’t. He’s stuck and alone except for the screaming lights. 

He calls out for Steve. 

Steve’s not there.

* * *

* * *

Bucky wakes with a start, bright lights fill his eyes, antiseptic fills his nose. 

The lights were following him, they were screaming his name, he couldn’t find Steve, he _needs_ to find Steve-

“Barnes!” A voice shouts, hands are pushing him back down onto the bed, he wants to fight back, he knows how to fight back.

Bucky moves his arm to push the offender off when a pain shoots up it. He lets out a loud groan- a weakness, his mind tells him- and falls back onto the bed, clutching at where his bicep is pulsing with pain.

“Barnes,” the voice says again, and Bucky recognizes it.

He shakes his head, giving his eyes a moment in the dark behind his lids, before opening them to see a tired looking Dugan hovering over him, “Dugan?” He’s not sure where he is, or why Dugan’s here, but he’s definitely not on base, and he’s hurt, but why?

Dugan sighs and lets Bucky’s arms go, “Nice to see you awake, Barnes.”

Bucky looks around the room. He’s in a hospital- he knew that the moment he smelled the cleaning supplies and disinfectant- there’s no flowers next to his bed like the time he got appendicitis, and Dugan claimed the recliner by Bucky’s bed as his own. His Ma’s not here, or the rest of his family, and Steve definitely hasn’t been in because if he had then he wouldn’t have left his bedside until Bucky woke up. 

He looks to Dugan, “Why am I here?”

Emotions flicker over Dugan’s face as he tries to school it, but Bucky knows how to read people, and the looks that crossed Dugan’s face were remorse, regret, and sadness, “You don’t remember?”

Bucky can feel his arm throbbing with some sort of pain, he knows there’s a bruise on his rib from the dull pain, and his face feels stiff with cuts. He knows he’s here for a medical reason, but if something happened to him back on base they’d have patched him up there, not in this hospital with tech made this year and a door with no window. 

He shakes his head, “Not really, no.”

Dugan shifts closer to him on the recliner and puts his elbows on his knees, “Fury sent you on a mission,” he starts, and Bucky _remembers_.

“The lights were real,” He whispers, his eyes fixed on the bare wall across from him, “they knew my name,” he blinks and looks at Dugan, “where am I?”

“We’re in Walter Reed.”

Bucky frowns, “DC?” 

“Yeah,” Dugan sighs, leaning back into the recliner, the weight of how many ever days Bucky’s been out is finally taking it’s toll. Bucky wants to frown deeper. 

“What’re we doing in DC? Why aren’t I back at base?” He knows the answer, he remembers them telling him about those few men who were compromised on missions, what happened to them. He just needs Dugan to confirm it for him. 

Dugan scrubs a hand over his face, “Those men, they knew your name, Barnes,” Dugan says quietly, “you’re compromised.”

Bucky nods.

“They’re putting you in Witness Protection.”

“I can’t see my family again?” _I can’t see Steve again?_

Dugan shakes his head, “I’m sorry, kid, not until the war’s over.”

Bucky nods again. He lets himself fall back into the bed and pulls the sheet over his head, “Could you cut the light of?”

The room’s silent for a moment, it’s stuffy under his blanket, “Sure, kid.”

He can hear Dugan get up and cut half the lights off, leaving a few on for the nurses. He feels Dugan’s hand on his ankle, “I’m sorry kid, I’m really, really am.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right now, he’s Buchanan Rogers- at least they gave him the choice of choosing a name- he’s an ex-cop, he’s an orphan alone in the world, and he’s just trying to figure out what to do next in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own

Bucky’s still not used to the house they set him up in. 

It’s nice, mute coloring, new appliances, plush carpet, there’s a small office for him to work in- on what? he doesn’t know- and fridge full of food. It’s in a nondescript cul de sac that’s close enough to D.C. that if some higher up needs to talk to him he can take a short drive there- with a car the government provided him, they must be really sorry- but far enough that the loud noise of the city won’t wind up the PTSD he swears he doesn’t have.

The house is nice, he’s comfortable, but it’s just not _him_.

There’s nothing in this house that makes him think of home. Home is back in the sandbox, home is back in Brooklyn, home is wherever Steve is. And none of that is here. In this house that looks like it should be on an HGTV program- because that’s a channel he watches now- not a house that he should be living in.

But then again, he’s not really himself until the war’s over. Right now, he’s Buchanan Rogers- at least they gave him the choice of choosing a name- he’s an ex-cop, he’s an orphan alone in the world, and he’s just trying to figure out what to do next in his life. 

It’s the same lame story, to everyone he meets, and he hates it. 

He wants to be James Buchanan Barnes, he wants to go by Bucky, he wants to drive up to Brooklyn and visit his family, he wants to have his white picket fence dream with Steve. 

He doesn’t want to be Buchanan Rogers.

But he is, and he understands why. The lights knew his name, there was a mole in the Army- _was_ being the word to use, because God knows what Fury did to the mole once they found him- and now he has to hide for his own safety. He has to be Buchanan Rogers with an annoyingly scruffy face and hair that’s growing out to hide his own features. 

James Buchanan Barnes died in the war, he was a good man and soldier, he just didn’t have luck on his side, the army is sorry for your loss. That’s the story his mom will hear, that’s the story Steve won't hear until his mom tells him. 

At least it’s better than this ex-cop movie trope story he has going on.

Bucky looks outside to the street. Snow’s falling softly on the grass, the sun is hidden behind a grey sheet of clouds and he hates his life. 

He presses his fingers to the glass, his body’s still used to the heat and sand, going outside would mean a nasty cold. Going outside without a cap and sunglasses is breaking protocol. Bucky sighs, his breath coats the window, somewhere there’s a family dinner going on, one without him.

“Merry Christmas, Stevie.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s real?” He asks, motioning back to where Bucky’s picture smiles at him, “He’s actually gone?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own

**Steve, 2009**

The brownstone in front of him is familiar yet different. 

There’s still red flowers planted on the windowsill, there’s still blue paint on the steps from that time an art project went wrong, the gold address numbers are still slightly crooked, and the white gate has yet to be painted black to match the rest on their strip of the street. But now, because he hasn’t been home in close to five years, the tree that was just sprouting is now tall, the brown boxes holding the flowers aren’t pristine but chipped, and instead of Becca’s bike being chained to the gate there’s a yellow moped.

Steve shifts in his uniform and sighs, there’s no time like the present to walk through that gate and see the family he left behind while he tried to find himself after Bucky went missing. There’s no time like the present to face reality and hear from the woman he calls his mother- the woman whose letters he’s been putting reading off for years and phone calls he's been avoiding- that Bucky’s gone. That Bucky’s not coming back, and that Steve needs to not be gone with him.

He pushes the gate open with the tips of his fingers, it creaks from age, and walks down the short sidewalk. He steps over the cracks in the sidewalk with his glossy shoes, and goes up the stairs with measured steps- perfected from years of being in the military- until he reaches the door. 

He wishes he could turn around and see Bucky behind him, holding both their bags, and yapping on about how excited he is to eat some of their mom’s food instead of plastic flavored MREs. He wishes he wasn’t back home alone- back home to stay for good without Bucky. But he can’t think about those things right now. He needs to will himself to knock on the door and see his family, to not hightail it out of Brooklyn because there’s too many memories here. Memories of the two people his misses this most: His Ma- Sarah- and Bucky.

He needs to be the soldier he was trained to be, strong and stoic, and be the son his mom didn’t lose, living and breathing, not a postcard from some random place in America. 

( _Though_ , something in the back of his head whispers, _if you had Bucky’s fate you’d be have been with your real mom in Heaven._ )

Steve raps his knuckles on the door three times- ignoring the fact that he could have probably moved aside the dirt in the potted plant at his feet and find the key Bucky stuck there all those years ago- and waits. 

He hears the lock shift on the other side of the door and braces himself.

The door peaks open, the person on the other side too busy pushing back an unfamiliar cat with her foot to notice Steve, “Yeah?” her Brooklyn accent is thick like syrup, she’s taller than the he last saw her, and this time her hair’s in long waves past her shoulders instead of cropped short to her ears.

And Steve wants to cry. 

He clears his throat, “Hey ya’ Becs.”

Becca turns herself around quickly, the cat at her feet all but forgotten, her brown eyes wide, “Stevie?”

The cat meows as if saying his name too.

Steve knows his smile is watery but he tries to give her a big one anyway, “How’ve ya been?”

“Steve!” She pushes the door open fully and pulls him into a hug, her hands wrapping around his shoulders, her toes holding all her weight up because she still can’t reach him, even after all these years. 

He pulls her in close and presses his face into her neck. This he’s missed. He knows he could have came to see them any time he was off tour, that he could have stayed in the room he and Bucky shared and spent time with his family that was grieving the loss of their son. 

A loss Steve always denied.

But he chose to stay away. He chose to visit new cities and sleep in dubious hotels because he couldn't deal with going home without Bucky. He went and saw the sights him and Bucky always dreamed about going to. He went to both Disney theme parks because and saw a giant ball of twine, he ate Philly cheesesteaks and drank cherry soda, he laid for hours on sandy beaches and spent nights under the stars. He did it all because he and Bucky swore they were going on a road trip when they finally got cut loose, he did it all because he needed to find himself in a world where Bucky didn’t exist.

He pulls away from Becca, giving himself the chance to finally look her over. 

She looks nothing like her father and all like her mom and brother with long limbs, a round face, and wavy hair. He remembers her eyes being too big for her face, but in these few years she’s grown into them, looking less like a teenager and more like the adult she is. _Twenty one, now,_ he thinks to himself. 

“Becca?” Another familiar voice calls, “who’s at the door?”

Steve can hear feet walking closer to the door, and he wants to both run away from the door and run into the house.

“Becca?” She calls again, “what’re you-”

Becca moves away from the door, the cat scampering down the hallway, and Winifred stops at the end of the foyer, finally seeing who’s at the door. One hand shoots up to her mouth when she gasps and the other goes up to the wall, like if it wasn’t there she’d fall. 

Steve makes himself stand up taller, his hands resting at his side as if he were about to address a superior, “Hey, mom.” he says. 

He’s not sure how he should go about any of this. Becca welcomed him with literal open arms, but his mom- the woman whose letters and calls he’s been ignoring. The biological mother of the one half of SteveAndBucky that didn’t come back. His own legal guardian- he’s not sure how she’s going to react to him being back out of the blue after five straight years of being overseas or in different states.

“Steven,” She says, her voice unbelieving, like he’s a ghost. 

And maybe he is. Maybe he is the ghost of the person she called ‘son’, maybe he’s not the whole Steven Grant Rogers like he used to be but a tattered and holey version. War does that to people.

Becca makes a motion with her head, beckoning him into his once-home. He hesitates for a moment before stepping through the threshold onto the blue rug that’s been there on the floor ever since he could remember, into the house he lived in for years, maybe even a decade. There’s still pictures hanging on the walls, most of the same but some are new- like Becca’s high school graduation, her prom, the big twenty one that he missed. There’s new pictures of Becca, his mom, and dad together, the three of them smiling but still squished into the picture like two overgrown boys should be in the back behind them. 

He pauses in the midst of walking to his mom when he sees one in particular. 

There, hanging on the wall is a large wooden frame with a triangular box underneath it. In the frame Bucky’s face- decked out to the nines in his uniform- smiles back at him. Next to the picture, inside the frame, are a pair of tattered dog tags that he knows are Bucky’s from how worn and unclean they are. Underneath the tags and picture is the ‘Condolences’ letter that Steve can’t bring himself to read. And underneath all that, the thing that makes it all the more real, is the folded Unites States flag. The flag they give to the family of fallen soldiers like that piece of fabric would make up for a lost son, like that would make up for a lost _soul_. 

Steve feels tears well up in his eyes and turns to where his mom is, still at the end of the hallway, but now more composed with a look of sadness and pity on her face.

“It’s real?” He asks, motioning back to where Bucky’s picture smiles at him, “He’s actually gone?”

His mom nods and walks to him. All of that powerful motherly instinct to protect their young showing in her steps and on her face. He lets her pull him into her arms, his big body curling in on itself as he tries to hold the sobs back. 

“He’s gone, Steven,” she says softly, her voice thick but her hands strong and rubbing circles into his back, “He’s gone to a better place.”

And Steve finally lets himself cry because it’s real and he’s home and he’s now engulfed in both his mom and sister’s arms. 

He lets himself cry and he lets the guilt for not being with Bucky when it happened lift off his shoulders, and with each tear, he finds himself.

* * *

* * *

They end up in the kitchen after their crying session. Steve, sitting at the little breakfast nook, his uniform shirt draped over the back of his chair and his shoes by his side. His mom is leaning against the counter, making the three of them coffee, while Becca pops cinnamon buns in the oven. 

The kitchen’s the same for the most part. New stainless-steel appliances in place of the old plastic ones, but the same wooden breakfast nook with paint splatters from his projects and nicks from the time Bucky took wood-shop. Instead of Steve’s drawings on the fridge there’s his postcards and instead of he and Bucky’s graduation photo resting in the top, right corner alone now there’s pictures from Becca’s high school years and some of their old army pictures he and Buck would send with their letters. 

Steve gets up from the table to look at the photos, ignoring the concerned look his mom gives him as he goes. He smiles at Becca’s prom picture, her dress is big and yellow, almost like something out of a Disney movie. She’s surrounded by her friends, all of them with big smiles on their faces, uncaring about anything that’s happening outside of their dance hall. He lets his eyes drift over to Becca’s graduation photo. Instead of the photo being taken like he and Bucky’s on the day of graduation, it was done professionally. She’s leaning against the railing of a small wooden bridge, her gown and hat a navy blue, and something rolled up to look like a cliche diploma. She’s smiling again, but this time it’s small, only showing a little bit of teeth and radiating with pride instead of excitement. After that photo is one of Becca standing in front of the famous NYU fountain, she has her arms in the air and a smile almost as large as the one during prom on her face.

And Steve feels like shit. 

“I’ve been selfish,” he says, still looking at the pictures of Becca, decidedly not looking over to the ones of him and Bucky in their army tactical gear, sitting on that rock they used as their post for years. 

“What do you mean, honey?” His mom asks softly. 

“This whole time- all these years since Bucky died-” and wasn’t that hard to say? “I haven’t been home where I should’ve been. I haven’t had the decency to call or write and ask about your life.” Steve shakes his head, he thinks if he had any more tears left they’d be running down his face, “I was too caught up in myself and how I felt that I didn’t think for a moment to come back home. I may have lost my best friend and practical soulmate,” he huffs a laugh at that, “but you guys lost a son and a brother. And I didn’t think about that.” He lets his eyes drift over to the picture of him and Bucky, young and fresh faced with smiles that show their gums. “I made you lose two sons instead of one.”

“No, honey, no,” his mom says, crossing the kitchen to pull him into a side-hug even though she’s about a head shorter than him, “you needed to do what was good for you, and at the time what was good for you was being away from here.” She rubs his back again, like she did in the hallway, a comfort from when he was young and had asthma, “Yes, we missed you and wanted you home for his service- wanted you home so we could help comfort you. But you wouldn’t have been okay here, and I wasn’t going to force you to come home.” She pauses, leaning her head against his arm, “I did lose a son, and I know that, I knew it was a possibility from the moment you two sat us down and told us about your enlistment. I lost a son but you lost the love of your life, and having that part of your soul torn from you is a terrible misfortune. So what you did wasn’t selfish, it was _healing_ and all that matters is that you’re home now.”

Steve nods, choked up, and leans into his mom. 

“By the way,” Becca pipes in from her spot leaning against the counter, “are you home for good?”

Steve nods again and clears his throat, “Honorably discharged,” he pulls an arm out of the embrace his mom still has him in and taps his left ear, “I was too close to an IED, got my team out of the way, but lost most of the hearing in my left ear in the process.”

“Oh,” Becca says, slightly stunned, “that’s what that weird thing in your ear is?”

“Becca,” his mom hisses, “be nice.”

Becca raises her hands, “I was just asking, Ma.”

Steve laughs, missing the bickering, “I should be getting a better one soon- also, where’s dad?”

“At work, he’ll be home by five.” His mom says, letting him go and giving his arm a few pats before going to finish fixing their cups of coffee. 

Steve lets himself look at the pictures once more before sitting down at the table again. 

“So where are you staying?” Becca asks, opening the oven to look at the buns. 

Steve takes the coffee his mom gives him and grabs the sugar dish from the middle of the table, “At a hotel a few blocks from here, why?”

“No reason,” Becca says shrugging, pulling on oven mitts, “I just noticed you didn’t have any bags or anything with you.”

“Oh, well, I only officially got in early this morning.” He takes a sip of the coffee, grateful for homemade coffee instead of army sludge and over sugared concoctions popping up everywhere, “This is my first stop as a retired Captain.”

“Why don’t you stay here?” His mom asks, sitting down in front of him at the table.

Steve sets his coffee down, large hands encircling the mug and sighs, “I don’t know if I’m ready for that just yet.” He doesn’t know if he can live in what’s basically his childhood home without Bucky, he doesn’t think he can see the holes where Bucky should be, or even go into the room they shared without breaking down. It’s stupid, and he should have healed from living a Bucky-less life for about five years, but he hasn’t and he’s not sure when he will. 

“Oh,” his mom says, sympathy bleeding into her voice.

“But I’ll be by everyday,” Steve says, meeting his mom’s eyes, “I’m also thinking about going back to school, and I know the fall semester's passed but I’m going to sign up for the winter mini courses they hold and finish my bachelor's degree.”

“Where at?” Becca asks, sliding three plates with large cinnamon buns to them. 

Steve thanks her for the bun, and pulls the bread apart, impatient and uncaring that he’s burning his fingers- he’s been through worse, “NYU, of course.”

She plops down in the set next to him and gives him a wide smile, “We’re gonna be in the same grade, we should totally take courses together.”

Steve nods, popping some of the bun into his mouth and smiles. 

He thinks he’s going to be alright.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look, I got all emotional over a book on your couch so now I’m buying dinner and you’re-.” Sam tosses the book at Steve, “starting on this.”

_Steve, Late September, 2015_

All Steve wants to do right now is sleep. Sleep and maybe drag himself out of bed later to eat something, but sleeping is definitely a top priority. But lo and behold, how the universe hates him, because right when he walks into his apartment- his apartment that _doesn’t_ have a roommate in it- there among his various pairs of sneakers is a nice pair of swanky leather loafers, one size too smile, and not as many creases as they should have in them walking around New York. And those loafers could only mean one person freeloading in his apartment.

Sam. 

So Steve groans internally, wanting to bang his head against the wall because sleep is needed in his life. Sleep is needed because he had to deal with egotistic art majors that think because he uses “old fashioned” techniques he, himself, and his thought process is that of someone from centuries ago. Sleep and some head bashing because getting them to listen to his advice seems to be impossible, but instead he goes for kicking off his own decent pair of worn in loafers and makes his way into his own apartment.

And, like he predicted, there sitting on the couch is Sam. 

Sam who has tear tracks on his cheeks and a book glued to his nose- and Steve has so many questions. 

Slowly, he sets his messenger bag down by the armchair and sits in it. Watching as Sam continues reading, occasionally sniffing, paying Steve no attention like he’s a ghost or something. He lets this continue for a couple minutes- Sam sniffling, turning the page, rinse and repeat until Sam finishes the chapter. Then he speaks, “You okay there?”

Sam nods, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hands, before pulling the book into his chest like it’s a treasure or something, “This book, man,” Sam says, shaking his head, his voice a little croaky, “this book has my soul and this author has me wrapped around his pinkie.” He pauses, shaking his head again, huffing out a laugh, “I can’t believe I’m as invested in this as I am.”

Steve sighs in relief that it’s nothing Riley related and leans back into the armchair, it happily swallows him into it’s cushy leather. He could probably fall asleep right now- after the long and annoying day he’s had- but he’s curious as to what this book’s about if it has Sam so worked up about it. Casually, Steve asks, “So what’s it about?”

Sam sighs dreamily, like he’s about to tell Steve about something great Riley did, and places the book in his lap, his fingers tapping the white cover, “I’m not done with it,” Sam starts, a disclaimer, “But it’s about these two boys- yes, boys, I know it’s great- who fall in love with each other while they’re growing up and experience life together. The summary on the back doesn’t give away too much, but my students tell me I’m gonna be crying about halfway through the book and then all the way until the end.”

“Your students?” Steve asks, raising an eyebrow with a huff. He never thought Sam would be taking book recommendations from his high school psychology students.

“Yeah, laugh all you want, this is a good book. One fine piece of literature right here.” He raises the book, shaking it as he speaks, “You should give it a go.”

“I dunno,” Steve says, shrugging, letting himself sink farther into the couch, “I don’t think romance is my thing.”

“No, dude,” Sam says, raising his free hand to stop Steve from talking and raises the book higher in the air, “this isn’t just some _Twilight_ romance,” Sam spits out the name like it personally offended him, “this is the Real Deal. Like, you’re not gonna read something like this anywhere else. It’s so- so,” Sam stops, bringing his hands down, thinking about his words, “it’s so honest and raw. Like, it makes me think about my old crushes and Riley. It makes me wonder if any of this,” Sam raises the book again, shaking it slightly, “could have been what happened to me.”

Steve leans his head back against the chair, considering whether he should trust Sam- and he always trusts Sam, no matter what- and read the book or tease Sam about it instead, “What made you cry?” Because, really, if a book made Sam cry Steve needs to know what happened. 

“Oh,” Sam groans, hugging the book to his chest again, dramatically throwing himself back into the sofa, “One of the main characters- Chris- lost his mom at eleven, _eleven_! And after the funeral Sebastian’s- the other main- mom told Chris that she was going to be his legal guardian. And this whole book is from Sebastian’s point of view, so you see him there, in pain because his friend’s in pain and his friend doesn’t want any comfort. And I just-” he makes some strangled sounds before sighing, “I just _can’t_.”

Steve frowns, “Who wrote the book?”

“A mastermind by the name James Grant.”

Steve mouths the name to himself, a frown still on his face.

Everything Sam described sounds like a page straight out of his life. He remembers losing his mom when he was eleven, too young to have something like that happen. He he remembers when Bucky’s mom asked him if he’d like her to be his legal guardian, too young to understand what that meant or what would happen to him if he didn’t have anyone as caring as her. He can remember that moment like yesterday because it was one of the things that changed his life. That made him who he was today. 

And _James Grant_ that’s Bucky’s legal first name and his own middle name.

 _It could all be a coincidence_ , he thinks to himself, staring at the cover of the raised book. 

Sam’s only told him one passage out of the book, one passage that could just be a pure accident on the author's part. But now Steve needs to know, he needs to know that someone hasn’t written he and Bucky’s life into a book, he needs to know because neither he nor Bucky told anyone their life story, and the only way this could be written then is if-

No, Steve’s not going there. It’s been years since Bucky died- he’s come to terms with it now- and years since he was _supposed_ to have moved on, but there’s always been a _what if_ eating at the back of his mind. 

“What’s the name of the book.” Steve asks to an unknowing Sam. Sam who just happened to get a book from his high school students, who just happened to be reading said book on his couch. Sam who doesn’t even know his whole life story but might be reading it anyways.

“End of The Line,” Sam says grinning, “knew I’d get you into it, man.”

Steve nods, “End of The Line, by James Grant, got it.” And somewhere, buried behind the walls he’s put up after years of therapy and VA appointments, Steve remembers Bucky, during their time overseas, telling him that they were together during the war until the end of the line.

He shakes off the thought, and sighs, pushing himself up from the arm chair. He needs to something that’s not dwelling over the past, “Wanna’ order some Chinese?” Steve asks, heading into his kitchen to grab the embarrassingly worn menus.

“That kinda’ day?,” Sam asks from where he’s still on the couch. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, sighing, taking one of the menus with him to the living room, “Had the seniors today.” He knows Sam will understand- he’s complained enough about them.

“Oo,” Sam says, hissing like something cut him, “they still giving you trouble?”

“When don’t they? I think going to NYU got to their head.” It doesn’t help that their school shouts their prestige from the rooftops and visits high schools weekly to tell the kids just how great they are. 

“And that’s why I teach high schoolers. Once kids start paying for shit they get cocky.”

Steve half shrugs and nods, completely getting it, “Is Riley coming over, too?” he asks, flipping over the menu in his hands, contemplating whether he should go for something spicy or sweet. 

“Uh,” Sam pulls out his phone, shooting off a text, “I probably shoulda’ called him before I came over.. but I just needed someone to yell about this book about.”

“And you couldn’t yell at Riley about it?” Steve asks with a laugh, settling on the hunan chicken. 

“You know Riley’s a book snob, if it’s not written by someone dead or JK Rowling, he doesn’t care.” Sam looks down at his phone when it chimes, “He’s coming and he wants something with shrimp.”

Steve tosses Sam the menu, “He’s your husband, you figure it out.”

Sam grins and takes the menu, “Yeah, yeah he is.”

Steve wants to make fun of Sam’s happiness, but he can’t. He met Sam and Riley at the VA when he started going all those years ago, both of them came from the same platoon- para-rescuers- and got out around the same time Steve did. Instead of their love story having a tragic ending like many war-ridden ones do, they go their happy ending. Both of them finished their tours, getting out the moment they were let off the army’s tight leash, and made their friendship into a relationship. 

At first, Steve was filled with an ugly envy for them. They go their happy ending so why didn’t he? But after a few meetings, after seeing them like other people probably saw him and Bucky- Riley looking at Sam like he hung the moon, and Sam looking at Riley like he hung the sun- he couldn’t dare to hate them. Not when they left war with something good instead of a lost limb or night terrors. 

And the moment Steve opened up and spoke out about his time in the army- losing men, losing the hearing in one ear, the permanent scars on his body, but mostly about losing Bucky- Sam and Riley comforted him. They understood both the fear of losing someone that important and how war changes a person. 

From then on, they were inseparable.

It wasn’t like Steve was third-wheeling with them on dates, but a group of best friends, just with two that were in love with each other. It was a nice change from Steve being alone or being with family who kept looking at him like he was going to break. 

“Did you decide?” Steve asks, his eyes flicking down to the white cover of the book in Sam’s lap before looking at the menu in Sam’s hands. 

“I think I’m getting sweet and sour pork, and for Riley mango shrimp.”

Steve goes to take the menu back but Sam pulls it back before he can reach it, “Nah, I’ll call it in and pay for it.”

Steve opens his mouth to protest.

“Look, I got all emotional over a book on your couch so now I’m buying dinner and you’re-.” Sam tosses the book at Steve, “starting on this.”

Steve catches the book with ease and stares at the book in his hands. He feels his heart start to race on what might be written inside the book. He can hear Sam calling the Chinese place but ignores him for tracing the book cover with his fingers.

The cover of the book’s an off white. In the center of the cover there’s an old fashioned compass propped open with an arrow pointing north- true north, Steve thinks. Below the compass is _James Grant_ typed in a simple sans-serif font, in a light blue, and above the compass- also in blue, same font but bigger than the author’s name- is the title _End of The Line_.

He can feel his heart beating faster at the thought that this might actually be written by Bucky. That his life might be spelled out for him from the view of Bucky’s eyes. Everything Bucky felt for him, everything they did together- and maybe even the happy ending they never got...

Steve shakes his head, his heart still beating hard like it’s going to burst out of his chest and run away. He tries to calm himself, breathing in slowly, listening to Sam’s voice as he orders, and opens the book

**_Prologue..._ **


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve takes another breath and starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I made a playlist for this fic full of music I listen to while writing this, and bc i'm afraid of going to jail for illegally downloading music all the music on there is actually from my Itunes so it's not gonna be a ~typical~ ship playlist. ANYWAYS [here it is](http://8tracks.com/pesmenos/past-lives) (and you should totally check it out cause there's a snippet from chapter 10 in the description)
> 
> Beta'd by: [Cherry](http://spookyscarycherry.tumblr.com/)

After his impromptu dinner with Sam and Riley, Steve settles himself on his bed with Sam’s copy of the book- freshly showered, and ready to delve into something that just might change his life. (Sam- ever the good friend- let him keep the book, telling him that he has a digital copy on his IPad and that Steve could think of the book as an early Christmas present.) 

Steve opens the book again, the first time since dinner, staring at the black font of _Prologue_ before taking a deep breath to ready himself for reading it.

He couldn’t bring himself to read it earlier while Sam was here. He didn’t want anyone to be around him while he delved into something that might be so personal to him. He didn’t want Sam to ask him what was wrong if his mood had happened to change to disappointment or surprise while reading the book. He didn’t want Riley becoming concerned for his well being and getting that hurt-puppy look on his face when Steve would lie and tell him it was nothing because this book was a lot of something- a lot of something that Steve didn’t know how to explain without sounding like he was crazy or like he still hadn’t learned how to cope with Bucky’s death. 

He knew how to cope and he did cope- not that anyone believed him. With Becca setting him up on countless blind dates or Sam and Riley taking him out to gay clubs trying to get him to go home with someone. Steve just wasn’t interested in dating, not now and probably never. He’d found the one for him all those years ago and he wasn’t about to try and replace that because he knew he couldn’t. And anyways, he’s content the way he is now, teaching art classes at NYU and either spending his free time alone or with friends and family. 

It’s not a bad life to live, and he _is_ happy. But this book- this book might change that, and he’s not sure if he’s ready. He’s going to read it, no doubt about that, but he’s not sure what he’ll do if he does come to find out that Bucky’s actually alive and spending his free time writing books about their life together instead of actually coming back into his life. 

Steve takes another breath and starts.

_Some days you wake up knowing something’s going to happen that’s going to change your life. Some days you wake up unknowing to what the fates have planned for you. I’ve had my fair share of both these days- some more life changing than others, some so normal I wouldn’t have noticed the change until it hit me in the face._

_This is a story of gain and loss. Of love and hope and want. This is the story of mundane and fateful days that two boys shared together. Two boys named Chris and Sebastian._

Steve flips the pages until he gets to the first chapter, settling further into the pillows propped against his headboard. 

_It was a day like any other day for Sebastian. He got woken up at seven thirty by his mom. She helped him get his sleep-heavy limbs into his school uniform and made sure he brushed his teeth. He kissed his baby sister on the forehead before he went to breakfast, smiling at her pudgy little fingers that liked to grab at his nose. He at breakfast with his dad: Sebastian ate Captain Crunch, his dad a more adult meal of toast and coffee. Then walked to school with his mom, stepping on any of the fallen leaves he could get to before his mom would tisk at him. It was an absolutely normal day, but it was a day that would change Sebastian’s life forever._

The page broke and the narrator kept on with Sebastian's day, until he went to recess, that is.

 _Sebastian was hanging off the monkeybars- his little fingers gripping the bars with each swing, his feet kicking as he moved across- when he saw a blonde kid getting pushed around in the sandbox._

_He let himself fall from the bars, his feet getting a springing sensation when they touched the wood-chipped ground, and continued to watch as the blonde kid got pushed. He knew what bullying was- they went over it in class- and he knew he was supposed to tell a parent or teacher what was happening, for him not to get involved.. but he couldn’t do that._

_Pushing the thought of getting trouble out of his mind, he took big strides- as big as a six year old could possibly take- until he reached the sandbox, “Hey!” he shouted, getting the three bullies and the blonde kid’s attention._

_”Whadda’ ya’ want?” One of the bullies said, holding onto the neck on the blonde kid’s shirt with a dirty hand._

_”Leave ‘em alone,” Sebastian demanded, pointing to the blonde kid, puffing his chest up to look bigger against the bullies._

_”I don’t need your help.” The blonde kid muttered, trying to yank his shirt out of the bully’s hand._

_“Yeah!” Another bully yelled to Sebastian, walking closer to the blonde kid, “he don’t need your help.”_

_Sebastian saw the kick coming before the blonde kid did. When it hit the blonde kid’s chest the blonde kid started coughing, groaning when the bully holding him by the shirt threw him into the sand. Sebastian felt his heart race and saw red, before he knew it he was moving inside the sandbox and throwing a punch at the bully who kicked the blonde kid the in chest. He saw the blonde kid get up and tackle the bully that Sebastian punched into the sand, getting hit in the face himself before the bully pushed him off and ran away._

_The blonde kid got up after watching the bullies run away and turned to Sebastian, “I had ‘em on the ropes, didn’t need your help.”_

_Sebastian nodded, patting sand of his shirt, “I know, just figured one against three wasn’t a fair fight.”_

_The kid eyed him for a moment then stuck out his hand, “Name’s Chris.”_

_”Sebastian,” And that was the first day he met Chris, from then on they were glued to each other’s hip._

Steve closes the book, setting it down next to him on the bed. He stares at the lavender wall of his bedroom for a moment. Taking everything in because those are his words in the book, those are the words Bucky told him. Sure, there’s some details that weren’t true to the situation- there was only one bully instead of three, he got punched in the face instead of kicked in the chest- but everything they said to each other was like Steve took a step back in time to his old memories, like he was reliving his life from the pages of a book.

He doesn’t know what to think. He’s stunned, if he’s being honest with himself. Nothing’s making sense. 

Bucky’s dead. He’s been dead for going on ten years.. but nobody knows those words. Nobody knows what exactly happened that fateful day on the playground. Sure they got questioned by teachers as to why Bucky’s knuckles were an angry red and why Steve’s lip was busted, but the reply they gave was they were playing tag and got a little too rough. Nobody knew anything about three six year olds getting into a fight, nobody but his Ma, Sarah- God rest her soul- knew that Steve was bullied until Bucky came into his life. And he knows Bucky wouldn’t go selling their secrets to other people for money, and that his mom died when he was still young and him and Bucky weren’t together-together yet.

He can’t play it off as a coincidence when it’s basically exactly what happened to him. There’s only one explanation for this book, and that’s that Bucky’s still alive, somewhere. 

Steve looks down at the book cover, then looks up to his ceiling where his fan is spinning like his current thoughts. 

How can Bucky be alive? Could he have gone on a mission that went wrong? Could he have gotten in trouble with the government? Could he have became a prisoner of war and the easiest thing was to say he was dead?

But how could he stay dead and not tell his family that he was alive. He didn’t even have to tell Steve- and that hurt, it did, but Bucky could have at least told his family that he was alive and well.. unless he’s not alive. 

Steve shakes his head, bringing his hands up to rub at his eyes. He doesn’t know what to think or believe, right now. It could still all be a coincidence, a huge coincidence that some random, mysterious author wrote one scene just like him and Bucky’s life, making him sit here and think the dead is back with the living, making hope and sadness flare up in his heart, making him go ten steps back from his coping plan. 

He gives his head one more shake- he needs to finish the book before he can be sure that some miracle happened and Bucky’s still alive. So, he picks the book up, opening it to the page he was just on, and sets off reading. 

_Sebastian..._

* * *

* * *

It’s early morning when Steve finishes the book. The sun’s peeking through the night sky and he’s thanking whatever God that’s listening that he made sure he had no classes to teach on Friday. 

He sets the book aside and rubs at his eyes, yawning with how tired he is having stayed up for almost twenty four hours because of this book. 

The book in question had a sad middle- as expected- and happy ending.

Sebastian and Chris, like Steve and Bucky, join the army. Sebastian gets sent on a secret mission to take out some threats, when his cover’s blown. By some grace of God he makes it back to sovereign territory only to be told that he has to go into witness protection until the war’s over and there’s not a target on his back anymore. Sebastian understands it’s for the better and lives in compliance in a quiet D.C. cul de sac where he gets a job at a mechanic shop and tries not to pity himself when a family member or Chris’ birthday comes up. Years pass, the war ends, and he moves back into Brooklyn when a well-known mechanic shop asks him to work for them. On one fateful day when he’s getting his coffee at a little cafe down the way, he sees Chris. He panics momentarily before pulling himself together and taking the seat in front of his long lost lover. Chris, thinking Sebastian was dead, is surprised to see him and thinks he’s a hallucination for a moment. Sebastian reassures him that he’s not a hallucination by placing a hand over Chris’ and explains to Chris what happened. Chris cries, telling Sebastian how much he’s missed him, and Sebastian sheds a tear or two. The book ends with Chris and Sebastian holding hands, walking down a quiet Brooklyn street until they reach The Stan’s and One Evans’ childhood home. Chris tell Sebastian that nobody will be mad at him for doing what he had to, he tells him that he still loves him, and he tells him that he’ll be with him _until the end of the line_. It ends as Sebastian takes a step into the gate of his childhood home, his past finally becoming his future. 

And Steve is a mess. A tired, snotty, tear filled mess because this book _is_ his past and he doesn’t know if it’s his future. 

He sighs, rubbing at his eyes for the billionth time tonight- or this morning, he should say- and reaches to pull his phone off his night stand, turning the screen on. It angrily tells him it’s on twenty percent, he ignores it for putting his password in and going to Sam’s contact. He knows it’s early as fuck in the morning, but it’s Friday so Sam can be a bit sleepy teaching his high school students. 

The line rings close to six times before a groggy Sam answers, “Steve, everything okay?”

Steve, having not talked for the past handful of hours, clears his throat and sighs into the receiver, “Depends on your definition of ‘okay’.”

He can hear Riley asking Sam who’s on the phone and feels slightly guilty for waking Riley up- Sam, not so much- “Go back to sleep, babe,” Sam says to Riley, from the sounds of sheets rustling and a door quietly closing Steve assumes Sam left his bedroom, “What’s up, man?”

Steve isn’t sure how to phrase the fact that the author of this book is his dead since 2005 best-friend-slash-boyfriend-thing, but he hopes Sam understands, “You’re gonna’ think I’m crazy,” Steve starts, easing him in.

“I already know you’re crazy, now, what did you wake me up at-” Sam pauses, presumably to check the time, “six in the morning for?”

“You know that book you gave me?”

“Did you finish it in one night?!” Sam squawks.

“Yes,” Steve sighs, “but that’s not the point.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“I think the book’s written by Bucky,” Steve says quickly, better to just get it out in the open than dance around it .

Sam’s quiet for a moment, “Bucky like your old boyfriend, Bucky?”

“Yeah,” Steve braces himself.

“Bucky who was killed in action?”

“Yes, that Bucky.” Steve wants to roll his eyes, but they’re too tired and dried out from all the crying he did over this book. 

“Steve, are you okay? When’s the last time you went to the VA?”

“I’m fine, Sam, and I know you think I’m going crazy-”

“I don’t!”

Steve makes his eyes move and rolls them, “You do, and that’s perfectly understandable, I’d think you were crazy, too, if you told me your dead boyfriend wrote a book- but.. nobody else could have written this book. This book has my whole life written in it. From the first time Bucky and I met on the playground, to the last time we saw each other on base. Nobody else could have written this. Nobody knows my or his life like this.”

“Look,” Sam says, pausing for a moment to find some words, “how about you get some shut-eye and come over here around five, and we talk about this some more?”

Steve sighs, not sure how else to explain that Bucky _did_ write this book, but nods to the phone anyway, “Yeah, sure, see you later, Sam.”

“See you later, Steve, now go to sleep.” He can hear concern seeping into Sam’s voice but ignores it.

“Okay, bye, Sam.”

He lets Sam say his own goodbyes before hanging up. His phone beeps at him again, telling him to charge it, but he ignores that, too. With a resigned sigh he puts his phone on his nightstand and pulls out his hearing-aid, placing that next to his phone. He rubs his ear for a moment, trying to put some feeling back into it, before cutting his lamp off and laying down. 

The book is still on the other side of his bed, compass front watching him. He touches the book with his fingertips and sighs again, closing his eyes, hoping that he’s right about Bucky writing the book before drifting off to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, duh,” Riley snorts, petting a sleeping Falcon as Steve and Sam stare at the laptop screen, “if Bucky had to be wiped off the face of the earth by the government, then someone must have wanted his head on a stake.”

Steve knocks on Sam and Riley’s door with what he thinks is purpose. He’s ready to spill his guts to them and potentially make himself look crazy. But it’s all for Bucky, and he’s willing to do anything for Bucky. 

Riley’s the one to open the door, he’s in a soft looking shirt and sweatpants, his loyal puppy in cradled in his arms and an almost sad smile on his face, “Hey, Steve,” he says, opening the door further to let him in, “Sam’s cooking something up in the kitchen. Make yourself at home, you know the drill.”

“Hey, Riley,” Steve sighs, because of course Sam told Riley. He should have figured. 

He slips his shoes off and leaves them by the front door, laughing to himself when Falcon comes running to him, jumping out of Riley’s arms. Paws flying and tongue hanging out of his mouth, licking Steve when he opens his arms to hug the grey beast, “Hey little Falc,” Steve coos at the dog, kissing it’s head, “you’ve grown since I last saw you.”

“You saw him last week,” Riley says, scoffing, “he’s not growing _that_ fast.”

Steve looks up at Riley, raising an eyebrow, “This dog’s paw is going to be the size of my face when he’s all grown up,” he looks back at the dog, cooing voice back on, “Isn’t it Falc? Isn’t it?”

Falcon, thinking Steve’s praising him, licks Steve’s face again before escaping from his arms and bounding across the wooden floors to his owner. 

Riley, giving into Falcon’s cute little whine and paw touch, picks the dog back up, “I never meant for Falcon to be this spoiled,” he says to his defense when Steve raises an amused eyebrow.

“He’s going to be the world’s cuddliest pitbull.“ Steve pushes himself up from where he was crouched on the floor and stretches, “To the kitchen?”

Riley nods, absentmindedly petting Falcon on the head, “Kitchen.”

Both of them walk the short distance to the kitchen in silence. Riley petting a panting Flacon, Steve already sweating through his shirt at what they’re going to tell him about his ‘theory’ about Bucky being alive. 

Sam welcomes them into the kitchen by waving his spatula, back turned to them so he can focus on whatever he’s cooking, “Hey, Steve,”

“Sam,” Steve nods to Sam, already heading to the cabinets and pulling down three plates, “nook or dining room?”

“Nook,” Riley says, setting Falcon down, heading to the silverware drawer. 

The three of them work in silence. Sam finishing up dinner, Steve and Riley serving drinks and setting plates. Falcon’s the only one making noise with his gulps of water and nails scraping against the wooden floors. 

Eventually Sam finishes dinner and they sit down. It’s a simple but good dinner of steak and potatoes, the steak soaked in A1 and potatoes seasoned perfectly with garlic. Falcon’s circling the table. Going around to all of them, putting oversized paws on their knees, hoping someone will give in and slip him some table food- and eventually they all do. It’s quiet save for Riley telling Sam about his day manning the VA, the air around them tense, but eventually it falls silent, all eyes on him. 

“So,” Sam starts, taking a sip of his beer to wash down the steak, “you think Bucky’s still alive.”

Steve sets down his utensils and looks Sam in the eyes, “I know he is.”

Riley puts a comforting hand on his shoulder from across the table, “How, Steve?“

Steve looks away from Sam’s eyes and stares at the polished wood of the table instead, “Everything that happens in that book, everything up until the end, are things that have happened in Bucky and I’s life.” He licks his lips flicking his eyes from Riley, to Sam, then back to the table, “At first I thought it was a coincidence, because kids getting beat up on a playground was something normal back when but then he wrote about my Ma, and those years when I lived with his- now my- family. He wrote about our first kiss and first time. He wrote about the trip to base and the first time we got to go home. He wrote about how happy we were when we both got into the same platoon as officers together, and he even-” Steve lets out a ragged breath, all these memories resurfacing like they did last night are taking a toll on him mentally and physically and he doesn’t know how long he can go on explaining these memories again before breaking down.

“Steve, you don’t gotta’-” Sam pipes in, extending his hand across the table like his husband’s to give Steve comfort.

“No,” Steve says, looking up at Sam, “I need to say this one last thing.”

Sam nods, but leaves his hand on the table. 

“When Bucky wrote that book- and I know he did- he put in the last time we kissed and I know nobody else can know that. It was the day before he got shipped off to whatever made the army tell us he was dead. We had finally got some alone time in the tent, the rest of the guys were still in the dining hall and we knew there was only seconds before someone came in and we had to go back acting like just friends again.” Steve looks back to the table, he can almost feel the desert heat on his skin and hear the rustle of the tent being pushed by the wind, “We were both getting antsy because we were due home for Christmas in coming weeks, so, in those moments we had, he kissed me. And I know he wouldn’t tell anyone that. If he did we would have gotten dishonorably discharged. And he supposedly died a few days after that so how could he tell anyone? How could he tell anyone our whole life story if he died so quickly after our last kiss? How?”

The room’s quiet before Sam speaks up.

“I don’t know, Steve,” Steve, “but are you sure? Are you positive this is his doing and not some random guy hoping to make a quick buck off a love story?”

“His pen name’s James Grant, Sam, _James Grant_. His legal first name and my middle. I don’t think any of this is a coincidence, and I don’t think if someone was trying to make a quick buck they’d put so many hints and clues as to who these characters actually are in the book.”

“And you’re positive, Steve? Like, if we look into this we might find out he’s actually alive, positive?” Riley asks, his hand still on Steve’s shoulder like an anchor.

Steve nods, “I’m willing to call in my contacts this second. I just need you guys to believe me so I don’t sound too crazy on the phone.”

There’s a stretch of silence where Sam and Riley exchange glances and use their married couple powers to read each other’s minds.

“Okay,” Sam says, leaning back into his chair and cracking his knuckles, “how about we see what your ghost boyfriend wants?”

* * *

* * *

It was common knowledge to most of James Grant’s readers that the man was faceless,

(“Well, duh,” Riley snorts, petting a sleeping Falcon as Steve and Sam stare at the laptop screen, “if Bucky had to be wiped off the face of the earth by the government, then someone must have wanted his head on a stake.”

“.. thanks, Riley.”)

and that his editor went to his book signings instead. 

(Steve frowns at the image of the pretty lady that was _James Grant’s_ editor. She’s gorgeous, hair red and shoulder length. Her body petite but her attitude towards the camera made her look bigger. Almost scary. She looked like the perfect match for Bucky. And Steve isn’t jealous.

Apparently he can’t hide his Not Jealousy good enough.

Sam elbows him in the ribs, “They’re not dating, man.”

Steve stays quiet.

“She’s married, look,” Sam points to the fairly large rock on her finger, and the line in her bio that states _Happily married to Olympian Clint Barton, living in a quiet neighborhood in Washington, D.C._

“Oh,” Steve says, feeling guilty that he was jealous over someone that might have been the happiness in Bucky’s hidden life.

“Yeah,” Sam snorts, “ _oh_ ,”)

“They’re having a book signing in D.C. next week,” Riley pipes up from his place on the floor.

“When next week?” Steve knows he can make time for it, no matter what day. He’s never canceled class before and he knows his students would be happy with a spontaneous off period. 

Riley hunches his back to get closer to his laptop screen, hand still moving through Falcon’s hair as the dog sleeps soundly, “Uh.. Saturday, you wouldn’t have to cancel class, Steve.”

Steve sighs in relief internally, his record is still set.

“We could head over there straight after work on Friday,” Sam shrugs, looking between Steve and Riley, “get a late train ride and be there close to midnight.”

Steve looks over at Sam, raising an eyebrow, “We?”

“We’re not gonna’ make you go alone,” Sam says, like it’s clear as day that they were going to join him on his hunt for a man that may or may not be alive.

“You need back up, just in case.” Riley nods in agreement.

Steve frowns. He doesn’t want to pull his friends into this, he doesn’t want to make them feel his long suppressed pain, “Are you sure? What about Falcon?”

“Can he stay with your folks?” Riley asks, his voice slightly distracted as he focuses on petting Falcon again.

“I don’t think Ma would mind, but are you guys sure?”

“Steve,” Sam sighs, turning to face him on the couch, “I’m gonna’ say this one more time: we are not going to make you go into this alone. Okay?”

Steve nods, staring at Falcon’s blue-grey fur, “Okay.” He honestly doesn’t know how he got such great friends. After all the men he lost in war, all the times he never told Bucky that he loved him, all the years he avoided his family because he was being selfish. He doesn’t know how karma hasn’t gotten him back yet, and he doesn’t count losing partial hearing in one ear as his karma. His men have lost worse. His family’s lost worse. 

Maybe in the grand scheme of things he’s not as bad as he believes himself to be.. but that’s a conversation he needs to have with his therapist. 

He lazed around Sam and Riley’s place for a while after the decision that they were making a trip to the signing was officiated by buying train tickets. None of them talked about the upcoming trip, none of them brought up how crazy this was going to be- how crazy Steve _is_ \- they just lazed around and talked about absolutely nothing until Steve declared it was time for him to leave.

Riley gave him a hug, Falcon licked his hand, and Sam patted him on the back with an all knowing look in his eye. 

As Steve made his way down Sam’s apartment stairs he pulls his phone out and with a few swipes and taps he dials his mom. The line rings three time, accompanying him as he exits the complex and walks down the street. It’s a quiet night, surprisingly, the air’s cooling down with sweet autumn wind, and the sky’s that city lights purple. Not a star to be seen in the sky, nothing like how it looked in Iraq. 

“Hey, dear,” His mom’s voice is welcoming and warm, he can hear the TV playing in the background and knows undoubtedly that George is sitting next to her.

“Hi, Ma,” Steve smiles into the phone, he hasn’t called her in a couple of days- it’s nice to hear her voice. 

There’s some talking from George, too far away from the receiver for him to hear until his mom reiterates it, “Your dad says hi, honey,”

“Tell him I said hi back,” Steve replies, looking both ways before crossing the street, doing a quick little jog when a car turns without signaling before. He really hates when cars turn without their signal. 

“What are you doing? I can hear cars.” His mom asks, her voice slightly concerned- which, really, he’s thirty two, he can take care of himself in big ol’ Manhattan. 

Steve tries not to roll his eyes at her concern, “Heading home from Sam and Riley’s,”

“Oh,” She says, slightly surprised, “and how are they?”

Steve ignores whatever cause her surprise, “They’re doing good, Falcon got bigger, if you can believe that.”

His mom laughs, probably shaking her head, “I told them not to get a pitbull, especially with living in Manhattan, they’re probably never going to get their deposit back after he scratches up their floors.”

She tisks and Steve laughs, he remembers when Sam and Riley came to a Barnes+One Rogers family dinner a month ago with the crazy idea of getting a dog. At first everyone was excited for them, thinking they were going to get something small like a dachshund, then Riley told them he wanted a pitbull and Sam- being lovestruck- was all for the idea. His mom, Rebecca, and George all gave them their reasons why they shouldn’t get a pitbull while Steve sat there and shrugged whenever they asked for his opinion on the matter. 

“I think they’re thinking about moving to somewhere with a patio so Falcon can have room to stretch his legs,”

“Tell them I wish them luck finding something that allows them to have dogs,”

Steve nods, still walking, “Will do- speaking of Falcon,” Steve’s really bad a segwaying conversations, “Would you mind taking care of him next weekend? Friday through Sunday?”

“I don’t mind,” his mom says, “do you mind George?”

Steve can hear him asking ‘what?’.

“Taking care of Sam and Riley’s dog.”

_”Falcon?”_

“Yes,” His mom sighs, George is a little slow on the uptake sometimes. 

_”Nah, we could use some life around here other than Rebecca. What for?”_

“Honey, why?” His mom asks, speaking to him now.

Steve hesitates before clearing his throat, “Sam, Riley, and I are going to D.C. next weekend for an exhibition. I had extra tickets and they were willing.” He hates lying to his mom, but what can he say? _Hey, so, your son might still be alive and I’m trying to find him. I swear I’m not going crazy or relapsing._ No. He can’t make her worry or get her hopes up. Not on something like this. 

His mom reiterates it to George, then speaks to him again, “We don’t mind, honey. Bring him over on Thursday?”

“Will do, thanks mom, I’ll make Sam barbecue for you guys or something.”

“We’re looking forward to it.. are you okay Steven?”

Steve winces, she’s using his full name on him, she’s concerned, “Totally,” he lies, again, “why do you ask?”

“Mother’s instinct, I guess, you sure?” He can hear her get up and go into a quiet room, probably the kitchen, “You know you can tell me anything, right? You can tell any of us anything.”

“I know, mom,” and he does, he does know. He’s so lucky to have gotten a second chance at being a son after his Ma died, he’s so lucky to have had Bucky’s family take him in. To have had Bucky’s love. But he can’t tell her this, he has to lie for her well being. Even if she knows something’s wrong she won’t know _what_ , “the senior’s just have me a little stressed.”

Which isn’t completely a lie. 

His mom stays quiet for a minute, “Okay,”

“Okay,” he nods, “I’ll call you soon?”

“You better,” She says, back to her normal self, “see you on Thursday with Falcon, honey,”

“See you then, mom,” he sighs, “love you.”

“Love you, too.” Steve ends the call, sticking both his phone and hands in his pant pockets, and sighs. 

It’s going to be a long week.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He was always hoping you’d read it and somehow come back to him.”

The train ride to D.C. isn’t too bad. Sure, it’s pretty late at night and the three of them are tired, but the seats are cushy, the cabin’s silent, and the view of the night sky is pretty nice. 

Sam and Riley are talking quietly between themselves, hands entwined between their seats and heads leaning against each other’s where they’ve stretched themselves out on the seats. Steve internally smiles at them- because he’ll never get over how perfect of a couple they are- and leans his head against the window, glass cold and refreshing on his skin. 

He’s nervous. There’s nothing to describe how he feels right now. Sure, he’s not going to see Bucky tomorrow but he’s going to see a woman who can get him to Bucky. He’s going to see the closest thing he has to Bucky tomorrow. It’s nerve wracking. It’s making his hands shake even though he’s still hours away from DC and even more hours away from the signing.

He doesn’t even know what he’s going to say. How is he going to convince a stranger that he knows Bucky- or _James_? Does the woman even know that Bucky is James and that James hasn’t been James Grant forever? What if James is a pen-name and Bucky has another name, one given to him after something happened that made him unable to come back home? What if she thinks he’s crazy?

Steve sighs and closes his eyes, moving his head to another part on the window because he already warmed the firsts stretch of glass. 

All of this is confusing. Confusing and crazy and potentially harmful. Harmful to himself, and to Bucky because what if Bucky is alive and just doesn’t want to be found? What if with this new identity he’s a new person? A new person who can live without Steve in his life. And that would crush Steve. 

Sure, he knows that he’s not going to get back the boy he knew and loved (loves) all those years ago. He knows that war and time and isolation changes people, but he’ll always love Bucky. No matter what happens his heart is Bucky’s, that’s probably unhealthy and his therapist would probably agree, but this is his heart. And from the moment Bucky punched that school-yard-bully, it’s belonged to him. 

That’s another thing Steve needs to prepare himself for: Bucky not wanting him back as a lover. 

Like Bucky not needing him, it’ll crush Steve, but just having Bucky back as a friend is more than he can ever ask for. It’s more than he can imagine after all these years of thinking Bucky’s dead. He’ll cope with it if Bucky says he’s dating someone or doesn’t want Steve like that anymore. He’ll cope because he’s a good friend, one that Bucky will always have- like is heart. 

Steve lets out another sigh and opens his eyes. Across from him Sam and Riley are now sleeping, their overhead lights dimmed, curled up in blankets. He must have been too caught up in his own head and missed them tucking in for the night, and he should really follow suit. Steve unzips the backpack he brought with him and pulls out his throw blanket, he carefully takes out his hearing aid, putting it away in it’s little case, and curls up in the blanket. 

He can ever so slightly hear the train moving down the tracks from his right ear and lets that soothe him to sleep, tomorrow’s going to be an emotionally and physically draining day.

* * *

* * *

After checking into their rooms and recharging themselves for longer than they should have on the hotel’s plush beds, they made their way to a restaurant near the bookstore. 

“So,” Sam says, tearing into a bun from the bread basket, “what’re you gonna’ say to his editor?”

Steve takes a sip from his iced tea, swallowing down a bite from his own bun and shrugs, “I’m not sure. I don’t wanna’ go in, guns blazing, spewing my whole life story to her. For all we know she doesn’t even know that Bucky’s James Grant.”

“True,” Riley said, nodding, “but let’s just assume she does, then what?”

Steve studies the condensation building up on the side of his glass, weighing his options, “Well, assuming she knows that his book is about most of his life, I’ll tell her who I am.” 

“And if she doesn’t believe you?” Sam asks, tearing off a piece of bread. 

Steve looks up at Sam, who’s still munching on the bread, “I can show her? Describe Bucky?”

“Why not show her that picture you keep of him in your wallet?” Riley pipes in, looking completely innocent despite the flush of embarrassment rising on Steve’s face. 

“How do you know about that?”

Riley shrugs, taking a sip from his own drink, “You’ve asked me to get your credit card before and it’s not like it’s hard to find.”

Sam frowns, “I didn’t know you had a picture of him in your wallet,”

“That’s because you’re too honest to look through other people’s wallets,” Riley says, patting Sam on the cheek, “even if it’s on accident.”

Sam pushes Riley’s hand off his face, taking it into his own hand instead, “What picture do you have of him?”

Steve rolls his eyes but pulls his wallet out of his back pocket anyways, opening it and pulling out the photo he slipped into one of the card holders, “It’s not just of _him_ ,” he places it on the table in front of Sam, “it’s of us.”

The picture is the one his mom had on her fridge of them in army. Both of them smiling, perched on the rock they claimed as Look Out Point, they’re sweaty and dirty and tired but so goddamn happy in the picture. It’s the most recent one they have of Bucky, and even though he wanted his mom to keep it for herself, she insisted he take it, telling him it do him much better than it does her.

Sam picks up the picture, cradling it in the palm of his hand like it’s something precious- and to Steve it is, “I’ve never seen this one,”

“There was only one copy of it and my mom made me keep it after she caught me staring at it for the tenth time.” Steve shrugs, looking back down at the table, “it’s the most recent image of him,”

“Is it from before..” Riley trails off, but Steve understands and nods.

Sam places the picture in front of him, “You gotta’ show this to her, man, it’s the only thing you have that puts truth behinds your words, at least to her.”

Steve nods again, taking the picture and staring it, “I know.”

The table’s quiet for a moment, until the waitress shows up.

“Who ordered the spaghetti bolognese?”

* * *

* * *

“Are you sure you don’t want us to wait in line with you?” Riley asks, with a concerned look on his face. 

“You don’t have to,” Steve says looking over at the long line of teenage girls clutching books to their chests, his own copy in his hands, “you can wander the bookstore or go back to the hotel, it doesn’t matter.”

“We’ll be in the bookstore, call us when you’re done?” 

Steve nods, “Will do.”

“Okay,” they both say, Riley looking like he wants to firmly plant himself in line with Steve and Sam sharing the concerned look that Riley has on. Sam claps him on the shoulder, squeezing it slightly before walking into the store with Riley.

Now Steve waits.

* * *

* * *

There’s about ten people in front of Steve before it’s his turn. He can see Bucky’s editor- _Natasha_ \- her hair’s redder than it is in pictures and along with the butterflies in Steve’s stomach, now his hands itch to draw her. 

He’s honestly not sure why so many people would come to this signing. Sure, he’s here, but he’s here for a different motive. He’s not here to get his book signed, that’s just a ruse, but other people are. People that he can hear going on about how much they love Chris and Sebastian’s characterization, people that are talking about something called _fanficiton_ and which is their favorite. People who are die hard fans of his and Bucky’s life- which is odd- settling to getting their book signed by the editor and not James Grant himself.

It’s odd and confusing, and he’s slightly surprised that Bucky’s book has such a large following. Then again, Bucky was always a little bit of a writer. He remembers going to the store with Bucky and his family and their mom giving them ten dollars each, telling them to buy whatever they wanted with it. Of course, he bought a sketchbook, Becca bought a new toy, but Bucky always bought a new notebook and occasionally pens. Steve never read what Bucky wrote- just like Bucky hardly ever got to see what Steve was drawing- but he knew Bucky wasn’t writing about his days, he knew there was something behind those blue-grey eyes that sparked creativity. And all this: the fans, the books, the posters, the little compasses people could buy with _Past Lives_ engraved in the lid, goes to show how right Steve was. 

Steve breaks out of his train of thought when someone taps his shoulder and tells him the line moved. 

Nine more people. 

He’s nervous as hell, with the picture of him and Bucky tucked into the cover where Natasha will sign with her silver sharpie and the words of “Hi, can you make it out to Steven Grant Rogers?” on his tongue, butterflies are eating at his stomach. 

But he’s ready, and he thinks he’s been ready since the day Bucky didn’t return to base, since the day his mom told him Bucky was really gone. He thinks he’s always known, somewhere in his heart where him and Bucky are connected, that Bucky’s always been alive. 

_Soulmates_ , his mom once said, and he believes her. 

Eight. 

Steve moves up the line. He feels like he’s about to go on a operation, like those times he had to deal with night vision goggles and people talking through the comms. 

Seven. 

The butterflies flutter and twist like the day after him and Bucky officially became a couple. The day they sat their mom and dad down and told them. 

Six. 

Like the day him and Bucky went to his Ma’s grave with their hands entwined and told her that they were in love and asked if she could bless them from heaven.

Five.

Like the time he painted Bucky for the first time and turned the canvas around to show him. 

Four.

Like the first time he shot a gun and made it dead center in the target’s bulls eye.

Three.

Like the first time he went to the VA and actually spoke about his story. 

Two. 

Like the first time he drew Bucky again, after the war, after everything.

One. 

Like the day he whispered to Bucky that he was with him for life, no matter what. 

“Hi,” Natasha greets, her smile small and most likely fake, “who should I make this out to?”

Steve, nervous butterflies eating at his stomach, places the book on the table in front of her. He watches as she pulls it towards herself and speaks slowly, “Please make it out to Steven Grant Rogers,”

Natasha flicks her eyes back up at him, almost like doing a double take. A tell. She has one manicured nail in the front book cover, “Steven _Grant_ Rogers?” 

Steve nods, “That’s correct, ma’am.” 

She eyes him for a moment before flipping the book cover open. She’s silent as she stares at the picture, obviously stunned from the way her sharpie falls out from between her fingers and the small gape of her mouth. He watches her as she rebuilds her composure, still unable to peel her eyes away from the picture but straightening her back and closing her mouth.

Steve takes this as a victory. The only reason she’d be gaping at a picture is if she knew one of the men in it. The only reason she asked him to repeat his name is because she’s probably heard it before, is because she probably knows why James Grant is _James Grant_.

Natasha closes the book, and folds her hands over the cover, blue-green eyes staring up at him, “How long will you be in town, Steven?”

“Just Steve, ma’am,” Nobody calls him Steven except for his mom and Ma when she was mad at him, “I’ll be here until tomorrow evening.”

Natasha hums and looks at the delicate watch on her wrist, “Would you mind waiting here until I’m finished,” she pushes the book back to him, “I think we have things to discuss.”

Steve nods, “That we do.” he points with his thumb over his shoulder, “I’ll be at the cafe.”

Natasha nods, “See you soon, _Steve_.”

Steve nods again and takes the book back, clutching it tightly so the picture doesn’t fall out, and throws her a sloppy salute.

* * *

* * *

“So she didn’t say anything?” Riley asks, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyebrows dipped in concern.

Steve shakes his head and leans back the chair, taking a sip of the tea he ordered- he needs to calm down before talking with Natasha- “She just asked how long I was going to be in town and if I could wait around for her.”

“At least that’s something,” Sam says, in his Glass Half Full Optimistic voice. 

“Yeah,” Steve sets his tea down on the table and looks out to where the signing line’s dwindling down, “I hope she believes me.”

Sam snorts, “You have a picture of the two of you, man, you have your mom’s whole house back in Brooklyn with all the proof she needs.”

“And if she doesn’t believe you and you need to find Bucky on your own we can use reinforcements,” Riley pipes in.

“Reinforcements?” Steve asks because he doesn’t know who could reinforce this situation. 

“Yeah,” Riley shrugs, looking proud of himself, “the three of us have contacts at the FBI, CIA, Homeland, MI6, basically all the intelligence agencies you can think of.”

“I’m not calling in any favors to any agency,” Steve says, shutting that idea down before it can start, making it like _he_ never had the same idea, “they’ll have too many questions I don’t have answers to, and I have too many questions for them to answer. It’ll be messy.” _Besides_ , Steve thinks, _it would be creepy of me to call in a favor for my maybe-dead-maybe-not-dead-kind-of-boyfriend-thing._

“Fine,” Riley says, rolling his eyes like Steve’s the irrational one. 

The three of them chat while sipping at their cooling drinks until Steve sees Natasha’s making her way from the signing table to the cafe they’re sitting at. 

“Well,” Steve pushes his mug of unfinished tea towards the center of the table, “I’ll see you guys back at the hotel,” he nods to Natasha’s direction.

Sam and Riley both turn around to take a glimpse at her. 

“I don’t wanna’ be a fanboy about that book ‘cause it’s your life and all but..”

“You kinda’ want to be a fanboy because that book is amazing and too unreal?” Riley finishes, looking away from Natasha and back at Sam.

“Yeah,” Sam nods, looking at Riley and Steve feels like he needs to leave the room because the looks they’re sharing are too intimate.

“Okay, I’m leaving now,” Steve looks at Riley and Sam, who are now looking at him, intimate look long gone, and throws them salute, “see you on the other side.”

He can hear Sam and Riley’s ‘goodbye’s as he leaves the little cafe and walks towards the bookcase Natasha’s leaning against. He’s nervous as hell, maybe not as nervous as earlier, but there’s more little butterflies eating at his stomach. He doesn’t know to what extent she believes him and how she’s going to react to him wanting to get back in contact with Bucky since Bucky seems in no rush to get in contact with Steve or their family. So, he stops in front of her, and gives her a small smile, since he left the book with Sam he settles for stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“Steve,” She says, pushing herself off the bookshelf before turning on her heel and leaving him no other option but to follow.

“Ma’am,” he replies, quickening his steps to catch up with her. 

She may be petite but she sure knows how to take large strides.

“Just Natasha,” She pulls the bookstore’s door open, not holding it for Steve, and leads them to a nondescript, but very sporty, car. 

Steve knows he should just get in the car and let him take her where she wants to, but he hesitates. He knows she’s just a book editor but he can’t help but feel nervous when getting into an unknown vehicle. 

Natasha rounds the car, eyeing him as she unlocks it, “I’m not going to murder you, Steve.”

“I know,” Steve says, still staring at the deep tinted windows and shiny black paint, “old military habit,” he explains looking up at her before looking back to the car, “they always warned us about getting into unmarked vehicles. _Especially_ overseas since most countries would do anything to get their hands on a high ranking officer.”

“Sounds pretty shady,” she pulls open her door and gets in, again, giving Steve the choice of letting her go or following. 

He follows. 

Anything for Bucky, always.

Inside the car’s sleek and leather with silver accents, obviously an expensive model. He has to push the seat back to fit his long legs but other than that the car’s designed for high class comfort. Once he’s buckled in Natasha starts the car, the engine purrs softly as it warms up. 

Natasha turns her head on the headrest to look at him, “Where are you from, Steve?”

He thinks this is a trick question, “Brooklyn born and raised, you?”

She looks away from him to some spot on the street and shrugs, “Volgograd,”

“Russia?”

She hums and puts the car into drive, “What do you do for a living?”

He can tell this game of twenty questions isn’t going to be as two-way-street as he thought, “I’m an art professor at NYU,”

“And before that military, I assume?” She seamlessly slips into the stream of oncoming traffic, leaning back in her seat with one hand on the wheel like having potentially dangerous strangers in her car is something she does normally.

He nods and replies to try and please her since these questions are all about him and nothing about her, “Captain Steven Grant Rogers, honorably discharged.”

“From what?” She slows to a stop at a red light and looks at him expectantly. 

“My platoon was caught in an IED, I was able to push people out of the way, but the IED blew up before I could get myself away. I lost most of the hearing in my left ear and I have some pretty bad scarring on my left side.” Most of the scaring went away around his ear and face after year or two of applying salves and treatments to it, but under his shirt and around his neck the scaring is starkly contrasted against his skin. No salve in the world could take those marks away. 

She starts driving again when the light turns green, “Do you have PTSD?”

Steve tenses up, his fists clenching in his lap. All these questions are too personal for her to be asking when they’re pretty much strangers, Sam and Riley didn’t ask until a few months into their friendship and they’re the leaders of his VA group, “Is this an interrogation?” He asks, the patience he once had completely gone. 

Natasha looks at him through the corner of her eye before looking back to the road and turning into the parking lot of an Italian restaurant. They’re silent while she finds a space to park, the air tense, and a slight frown on her face, like she’s upset that Steve actually called her out. 

The engine ticks, cooling down, when she turns the car off. She doesn’t look him and instead focuses on some place on the dashboard, “He’s been through a lot, you know.”

Steve nods, “I know- well,” he pauses and joins Natasha in staring at the dash, “I don’t know exactly what he’s been through, but I can assume.”

She looks at him for a moment before taking her keys out of the ignition and gets out of the car. Again, leaving Steve with no choice but to stay behind or follow. 

“It took him awhile to open up about who exactly the book was about,” Natasha tells him, taking long strides to the restaurant's door, “but when I picked up the book I knew it couldn’t be fake or made up. It was too real, too _raw_.”

Steve rushes to open the door for her before she can get to it, trying to be a gentleman but failing when she gives him a look and rolls her eyes, “How did you get the book?” he asks, because really, how did she get the book.

“Table for two,” Natasha tells the hostess, her voice fake and sweet, nothing like the gravelly voice she actually has. She turns back to him, motioning for him to sit down at the waiting area bench, “He submitted it to my company, actually. At first I was unsure about sending it to be published but then I met him and I knew it meant more than a love story to him.” She pauses, crossing one leg over the other and her arms over her chest, making herself smaller, “He talks about you. He’ll see something that he thinks you’d like and he’ll say it. He’s not ashamed that he still loves you, and maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this, but that book was like a beacon.” She turns to look at him, green eyes meeting blue, “He was always hoping you’d read it and somehow come back to him.”

Steve takes it all in. Bucky wrote that book, a book that Steve would have probably never read if not for Sam, and hoped he would somehow get his hands on it. Bucky hoped and prayed for who knows how long that Steve would come back to him, just like Steve did. 

If Steve was a boat, and the world was the sea, and life was a storm, that book would be his lighthouse. Calling him in, showing him the way home, guiding him to safety. And hasn’t that always been their friendship? Both of them being lighthouses, both of them being them ships, and the trials in their life being the ever-present sea. 

“So can I?” Steve asks, because all of this sounds like a dream, and he needs to be pinched awake, he needs to be grounded, “Can I go back to him?”

Unfortunately he has to wait for his question to be answered. 

The hostess leads them to a small table, candle lit and a bread basket set in the center. Romantic and wrong because Natasha’s married and Steve’s still in love with someone who should be a ghost.

They order their drinks when the waiter comes. A plain Coke for Steve and a glass of white wine for Natasha. Drinks that oddly match their personalities.

Natasha waits until the waiter leaves, dropping her smile and turning to look at him, her own eyes glowing where the candle flickers before her face, “You can go back to him,” she starts, making the butterflies rumble to life in his stomach, “but I need to know that I can trust you. I need to know that you won’t hurt him, I need to know that the wealth he has from this book won’t change anything.”

“I would never hurt him,” Steve says, pleads, promises, _swears_ , “I love him, more than anything.” He meets her eyes, his heart bleeding between them on the table, “But I understand.” And he does, he’s Bucky’s once-upon-a-time-lover, Bucky’s lover from over ten years ago, when they were both living off their army pay and nothing else. For all she knows he has malicious intentions and she’s just trying to keep Bucky safe from that. He respects her more for keeping what she knows Bucky yearns for away from him, for his safety, “How do you want me to prove that I won’t hurt him?”

Natasha lets her eyes drift away from his, looking around the restaurant, taking in the soft music and rumble of people dining while thinking. She pulls out her phone from her jacket pocket, “Give me your number.”

Steve spouts off the ten digits and visibly jumps when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls his phone out of his pant pocket and looks at the new text:

**Received [UNKNOWN NUMBER]:** It’s Natasha 

He saves the number and shoots a text back with his own name. 

“Keep in contact with me, talk to me, let me get to know you, and then when I feel that I can trust you, I’ll set up a date between you and Bucky.”

Steve already feels giddy, excited, utterly happy that he’s going to see Bucky within the coming weeks, but sobers a little when a question pops up in his brain, “Are you going to tell him?”

“No,” She says, shrugging, picking up her menu, “now we have a good two hours before Clint calls-” She looks over her menu, “my husband,” 

Steve nods. He did his research. He remembers the spark of jealousy when he thought Bucky and Natasha were together, “I know.”

She eyes him again then looks back at her menu, “You have two hours to earn some trust and I recommend you use them.”

And, boy, does he ever.

* * *

* * *

“So she knows about the two of you, he wrote the book so you could find him, be she’s not gonna’ let you meet him until she knows she can trust you?” Sam reiterates, his arms crossed over his chest and a dip between his eyebrows.

Steve sighs and nods, “Pretty much,” he wants to head to bed but Sam and Riley ambushed him like concerned parents when he walked into their shared suite. 

“And you’re gonna’ go along with her little game?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, I have no other choice.”

“There’s always reinforcements,” Riley pipes in from where he’s perched on the arm of the loveseat Sam took over. 

Steve shakes his head, “I’m not going to stalk him. Look, I get why she’s doing this, I respect it, so all I can do is talk to her like an old friend everyday and follow her rules.”

“I don’t like it,” Sam says with a frown, “but I guess.”

Steve looks between Sam and Riley, and nods, “I’m going to sleep guys, see you in the morning.” He’s not in a bad mood per say, but he’d rather be in bed right now than going over every little detail of this evening. He’s emotionally drained and his feet hurt from standing in line at the bookstore. He’s allowed to be a little moody.

The two of them tell him good night as Steve opens the door to his room. Steve pauses in the doorway and turns back to them, “Thanks for coming with me, guys, I really appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem,” Riley says, giving him a small smile.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, leaning so his head’s touching Riley’s side, “we got your back, man.”

Steve nods again, walking into his room and closing the door behind him. He pulls his cell out of his pocket, checking for any notifications.

 **Received [NATASHA]:** Have a good night, Steve :)

The smiley-face must mean he’s getting somewhere.

 **Sent to [NATASHA]:** Goodnight to you, too, Natasha.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha’s quiet for a few seconds, “I trust you,” she starts, and Steve feels butterflies ignite in his stomach, “and I think it’s time the two of you met, again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z_CfRxf3kPI) is p much the soundtrack to the last chunk of this chapter.

_Early October_

Steve looks up from his canvas when he hears his phone chime three times. He knows who it is by now, texting him at- he looks over at the clock and winces- three in the morning. 

He gets up from his stool and stretches, groaning as his bones pop and muscles finally get some movement in them. He didn’t mean to stay up so late working on a commission, it honestly just happened, and it’s not like he has anywhere to be on a Sunday. He cleans the paint brush that’s still in his hand in the water dish and sets it down, taking the murky, green water dish with him instead as he makes his way to his phone. 

Of course, it’s Natasha. 

They’ve been texting at a constant since the book signing. Sometime she’s complaining about the lack of coffee in her hotel room because her husband always forgets to refill the pot, other times he’ll be the one initiating textual contact and will ask- as much as it pains his artist soul- if something does or doesn’t look right in a painting. Usually he’d as Sam or Riley but both of them are too soft on him, whereas Natasha will bluntly tell him if something looks bad. It’s a resource he never thought he’d gain while on his search for Bucky. 

He swipes open the texts. The first two are mirror pictures of Natasha in different dresses. One of the dresses is a nice lavender with a sweetheart neckline that compliments her red hair, and the other is a body hugging, plain black number that looks like most of the other dresses she’s sent him pictures of. 

**Received: [NATASHA]:** Which one is better for a gala? Clint’s no help. 

**Sent to [NATASHA]:** I’ve told you before I work with paper, not fabric, but the lavender one looks nice with your hair. 

Steve watches the screen as a grey bubble pops up, three little dots moving as she texts. 

**Received: [NATASHA]:** You watch Say Yes to the Dress, Steve. You know your stuff. Besides I would call this light purple, not lavender.

Steve snorts at the _light purple_. He’s pretty sure that everyone knows what color lavender is and with her being a book editor, she should know, too. But, at the same time, he _does_ watch Say Yes to the Dress, it’s not his fault the show’s on late and he’s a sucker for it ever since Becca and his mom made him watch it while he was still getting back on his feet. 

**Received: [NATASHA]:** So the lavender one?

 **Sent to [NATASHA]:** Definitely. Why are you choosing dresses at this hour?

Because, really, it’s three in the morning and most people of their age should be sleeping. Not picking out dresses and painting. 

Remembering what he was doing previously, Steve slips his phone in the pocket of his sweats and takes the bowl of water to the kitchen. He rinses the dish out, scraping some of the dried paint with his nail before setting the bowl on his drying rack. 

Steve leans against his kitchen counter and pulls out his phone.

 **Received [NATASHA]:** I’m in the UK, it’s nine in the morning right now. What are you doing up so late?

 **Sent to [NATASHA]:** Painting a commission. 

They’ve had this talk before. He stays up late painting on nights he thinks his sleep with be wracked with nightmares, she stays up late because of some hidden past Steve can’t know about that gave her insomnia. They’re both a little screwed up but they understand each other. If Steve told Sam or Riley about this- staying up until ungodly hours painting or drawing or watching bad TV- they’d be concerned and would drag him back to his therapist by the collar of his shirt. 

Steve knows their concern is sound, but all the therapist is going to do is give him sleep medication and tell him he needs to stop his unhealthy habits. And that’s what he doesn’t want. He doesn’t want to have to rely on medication to get sleep and he doesn’t want to talk to his therapist. Not when he’s steps closer to getting back to Bucky, not when his nightmares are only arising _because_ he’s steps closer to seeing Bucky again.

His phone chimes.

 **Received [NATASHA]:** Nightmares?

Right to the point.

 **Sent to [NATASHA]:** Why else would I be up this late?

Steve slips his phone back into his pocket and pushes himself off the counter. He heads back into the second bedroom turned art studio and starts clearing up his mess. All this talk of sleep is making his eyes droop ever so slightly, and he can get back to the commission when he wakes up. So, he puts his paints into a case with a moist base to keep them alive (he doesn’t feel like wasting more money than he already has because he’s forgotten to save his paints), rounds up all his dirty brushes, and leaves the room, cutting of the light and closing the door quietly. 

Steve’s so caught up in the simple, yet cathartic, rhythm of rubbing the brush hairs against a bar of soap, rinse and repeat, that he doesn’t notice the new message until he’s sitting down on his bed. 

**Received [NATASHA]:** Go to sleep, Steve, it’ll be better than being dead on your feet tomorrow.

He knows she’s talking from prior experience and nods to himself. It’s true. Staying up late is just prolonging the nightmare. His mind’s so caught up on what _might_ happen that even painting couldn’t really take his mind off it.

 **Sent to [NATASHA]:** I’m already in bed, goodnight or morning Natasha.

 **Received [NATASHA]:** :)

Steve smiles at the little face and plugs in his charger before plugging in the phone itself. He already took out his hearing aid hours ago so all he has to do it cut off the bedside lamp and get under the covers. 

He stares at the ceiling as he tries to go to sleep. Him and Natasha have been texting constantly, he’s getting somewhere with this, and he’s making a friend. Sure, she might not trust him completely, but something’s there that he can feel. If there wasn’t _some_ trust then she wouldn’t have told him about her own insomnia or nightmares, that he knows. 

Steve closes his eyes and rolls over onto his side, sleep washing over him as he thinks about meeting Bucky again. 

He doesn’t have a nightmare that night.

* * *

* * *

_Two weeks into October_

“Next class,” Steve says over the sound of students packing up their bags, “we’ll be doing figure drawings, make sure to bring your large pads and charcoal. See you all on Wednesday.” He waits at the head of the room, smiling at the students who tell him goodbye, not moving until the last student leaves his class. 

He heads over to his desk and packs up his own things. As much as he loves teaching college kids he wishes classrooms were like that of high school, where he could make the room his own. Not these large bland rooms with white walls and huge windows. Sure, he has his own office where students can visit him if they have any questions or concerns, but that’s not the same as having his own room. In that aspect he’s jealous of Sam and his creative freedom with his classroom.

Not that he’d ever tell Sam. Sam doesn’t need that ego boost. 

Steve finishes packing his things up into his plastic portfolio and messenger bag, giving the room a once over before leaving, cutting the lights off on his way out. 

He’s halfway to his office- where he can eat his lunch in peace, not around loud college-goers that make him want to flip his hearing aid off- when his phone rings. Not the normal text-tone chime, but full on ringing and vibrating in his pocket. At first he’s confused as to who could be calling him because Sam’s teaching class, Riley has sessions at the VA, Becca’s at the precinct right now, and his mom dad only ever call him in the evening. 

Steve frowns and pulls his phone out of his pocket, and then it hits him who could be calling at this time.

“Hello?” He adds the question mark because he can count on one hand how many times he’s talked to Natasha on the phone and she always asks before calling. 

“Steve,” She says as a greeting, it’s a no-nonsense kind of day he assumes.

“Natasha,” Steve replies, slightly panting as he quickly goes up the stairs to his office, not wanting to deal with waiting for the elevator since he’s only on the third floor. 

“This is important, Steve,” Her voice is hard and gravelly, not playful and all-knowing like it usually is, and Steve is suddenly concerned.

“What’s going on, Natasha?” His mind runs through scenarios in which Bucky could be hurt, in which the universe and fate could be taking Bucky away from him again when he’s so close to getting him back. When he knows, finally, after years of sadness and denial, that Bucky’s alive, that Bucky wants him back, too. 

He quickly unlocks the door to his office, finally getting some privacy away from the echoing hallways and people that may or may not be listening. 

Natasha’s quiet on the other side of the line, Steve hears noise in the background before it becomes muted silence and she speaks again, “I have and offer for you, from two uprising authors of children's books, they need an artist-”

“Jesus Christ, Natasha,” Steve lets out a sigh of relief, walking over to the chair behind his desk and slumping down in it. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs again, “You made me think something happened to Bucky, my mind jumped to horrible conclusions.”

“He’s fine,” She says, as an apology, “now do you want this job or not?”

He tries to calm his breathing since his thoughts of losing Bucky again and the stairs he practically ran up made his heart race, since Natasha doesn’t know how to frame questions and potential work offers without putting him in a cardiac arrest, “I’d need to see the manuscript first and probably talk to them, what’s the book about?”

“Science and mythology,” She says in short, nothing else, probably shrugging one of her shoulders, “well, the wife wants the book about science and the husband wants it about Norse mythology, so they compromised.”

Steve isn’t even sure how someone could compromise on something like that. Those are two very different subjects to be mashed into one book, but he’s interested, there’s no doubt about that, “Email me the manuscript with their emails.”

“So you’ll take it?” 

Steve lets himself spin slightly on his chair, “I’ll _see_ ,” he emphasizes, “send me the things first.”

She’s quiet for a few seconds, obviously displeased that Steve didn’t just say yes- and he would, he should have, to help himself gain her trust, be he’s not about to be toyed with, he’s not about to sign up to make art for a book that could be a total disaster. Because, in the end, if she says that she doesn’t trust him- which he highly doubts- he knows he can call in those Reinforcements and somehow find Bucky, with or without her.

“Fine,” she says in the end, “you’ll receive an email shortly.” And hangs up. 

Steve pulls his phone away from his ear and stares at it, the _Call Ended_ screen looking back at him until it dims and eventually cuts off. 

He puts his phone on his desk and sighs, leaning back into his chair, kicking his foot against his desk so he spins slightly. He doesn’t think he messed things up with Natasha, he doesn’t think she’d drop his trust levels down just because he said ‘maybe’. And he knows he can’t just roll over and do whatever she says because she’s his main link to Bucky, that wouldn’t be right, it’s not the deal they struck.

But now, in the silence of his office, with the stacks of his sketchbooks staring at him while he slowly spins on his chair, he feels like he made a mistake.

* * *

* * *

_Three weeks into October_

Steve’s trying to ignore his phone, he really is, but it’s insistently chiming on the table and even Becca’s eyeing it. 

They’re at one of the mom and pop diners they like to frequent. Becca, having just ending her night shift, was hungry and in the mood for burgers while Steve was up trying to fend off nightmares and finish his commission at the same time.

Not that she knew the nightmares part, he told her they were in the past when she asked about the bags under his eyes and told her the partial truth: he’s been up late working on commissions and a children’s book with a couple that lives in a different timezone.

So, they’re both here, currently sipping at their drinks while they wait for their greasy burgers and seasoned fries. Eyeing Steve’s phone.

Becca nods to the phone, pushing her drink away from herself, “Who’s texting you?”

Steve doesn’t really know how to answer, he could just say ‘Natasha’ and leave it at that but that name- that one unfamiliar name- would bring up questions, “The editor for the children’s book I’m working on,” he says instead, it’s not really a lie but it’s not the truth either so Steve doesn’t feel too bad about it. 

“At,” Becca looks down at her watch, still in full NYPD uniform the dainty watch clashes with the navy blues and harsh blacks on her belt, “almost midnight?”

Steve shrugs, “She works at odd hours and knows I do, too,” Still not a lie.

Becca raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, “So if I were to look at those texts they’d be purely work related?”

Steve feels his heart fall into his stomach because if Becca were to look at those texts she’d see work related things, playful banter, secrets shared that are too hard to say out loud, and talk about Bucky. Bucky who’s Becca’s brother, who’s alive and well and Steve knows it. He knows Becca would be concerned for him over anything, before even thinking about whether or not her brother could actually be alive, before asking how this _Natasha_ knows these things. 

He pulls his phone off the table and sets it on his lap, the texts flashing up at him, “Don’t look through my phone,” he wouldn’t be as forceful with her if his texts didn’t have anything about Bucky, but because they do he has to. Until she sees her brother again, that is, whenever that may be. 

Becca leans back in her side of the booth, surprised, “Steve!” She gasps, “do you have a girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

Steve rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, “No,” and Bucky doesn’t count because Steve doesn’t even know if Bucky still wants him like _that_. He thinks he does, but that book could have been written just so he Steve could find him. It might not be anything more than missing him platonically, since they were best friends before they were anything else.

“You sure? Because that’s some really defensive posture you’re giving off and you haven’t dated anyone in years and your phone’s been going off for a while now, which is odd especially at this hour and-”

“Drop it, Becca,” Steve snaps. He knows he hasn’t dated in awhile, he knows he’s acting odd, but he can’t do anything but that. He can’t tell her what’s happening, he can’t tell her anything, and it’s bothering him. He’s always been honest with her. More so since coming back from Iraq. And this- this whole, messed up situation with Bucky, is weighing on his conscience. 

Becca goes silent, staring up at Steve with her big eyes. He feels guilty for snapping at her and he’s about to apologise before she leans in and rests her hand in front of him on the table. 

“You know it’s okay to date, right? I know you love- loved- my brother but you can’t keep waiting for him Steve. He’s gone, and it sucks, I know. But don’t wait on a ghost.”

Steve feels his resolve breaking. His walls falling down, his heart almost breaking in his chest because he _loves_ Bucky. There’s no past tense here. He loves Bucky, he always has and he always will. Even if he never found out Bucky was alive he would still love him with every fibre of his being. And he can’t tell her.

He sets his hand over his, holding onto her delicate fingers, rubbing a thumb against her smooth skin, “I know, Becs, I know.” because he does, he did, “I’m not waiting on a ghost, not anymore.” and that’s the truth. He’s really not waiting on a ghost, he’s not that man from years ago that stayed in he and Bucky’s old room, praying that Bucky would walk through the door and say how he just got lost. No, he’s not him.

Now, he knows Bucky’s alive. And yeah, most would say waiting like he has is unhealthy. Most people would tell him he needs to get some help. But he didn’t do it for his sake only. He did it so the people he might of dated wouldn’t have to try and be someone they’re not. He did it so people wouldn’t get their hearts broken because Steve can’t get over the fallen. 

And maybe Becca needed to hear that, too. 

She gives his hand a squeeze before pulling back with a small smile on her face and slight watery eyes. She clears her throat and looks around, “So, when is this food coming?”

And it’s okay again. The tense air of too many questions and talking about Bucky passed like a quick summer shower. Sure, Steve’s resolve is still broken but he knows he’ll be able to explain everything soon. He knows Natasha’s trust for him has grown, and that the minor panic about telling Natasha _maybe_ let her know that he wasn’t going to do whatever anyone asked of him. Soon he’ll be reunited with Bucky, soon Bucky will see his family again. 

Soon.

* * *

* * *

_Four weeks into October_

It was nice and brisk outside, the wind cool enough where they all wanted to pull up their collars just so they could get a little bit more warmth, the air smelling nice and fresh, finally away from heat and sweat. It was nice and it was perfect for grilling. 

Sam was outside manning the grill, happily poking the steaks with his tongs and drinking from his beer. Riley and Steve were inside cutting vegetables to throw on the grill later and Falcon was running back and forth, hoping someone would drop him a treat. They all did. 

“So Becca almost found out about Bucky?” Riley asks, his eyes fixed on the bell pepper he’s cutting.

Steve nods, sparing a glance up at him before looking back down at his own pepper, “Yeah, I hate lying to her but..” Steve shrugs, staring at the glint of his knife. 

“But what can you do?” Riley finishes for him, moving on to the onions. 

“Exactly,” Steve sets his knife down and leans his hip against the counter, “how can I tell her that her brother’s alive without proof other than what some near-stranger says and a book that might not even be about us? It sounds crazy.” It sounds crazy, Steve sounds crazy, but like Riley said: what can he do?

“But you’ll be meeting him soon enough, right?” Riley asks, somehow cutting the onion without tearing up. 

Steve shrugs, crossing his arms, not caring that his hands are sticky with vegetable juices, “I hope so, I mean, it’s been a little over a month and Natasha and I talk daily, that should be enough time to gain her trust.”

Riley sets his knife down and turns to look at Steve in the eyes, “You don’t think she could be playing you, do you?”

In all honesty, Steve never thought of that. He’s thought of every scenario about the day he’s going to meet Bucky, but nothing about whether or not this is real, whether or not he has some stranger just playing with his emotions, “I don’t think she is.. I mean..” Steve chews his lip and looks at the floor, “I don’t think it would have gone on this long if she was. Besides, she’s told me things about Bucky that’s not in the book and that people don't know.” Steve looks back up at Riley.

“Okay,” Riley says, nodding.

They stare at each other for a moment before going back to their cutting. Riley somehow powering through the onions that Steve won’t even poke with his knife because he’ll automatically start crying, and Steve with his peppers. 

Until Steve’s phone rings. 

Him and Riley stare at each other for a moment, both of them assuming who’s calling Steve, until Riley waves his knife in the direction of Steve’s phone and shoos him away.

Steve quickly rinses his hands before making his way to where he left his phone on the couch. And, of course, it’s Natasha.

“Hey,” Steve answers, more casual than a few weeks ago when he had to make it a question since she hardly ever called. 

“Steve,” Natasha greets, this time he can hear a smile behind her words (not that he can tell whether it’s fake or not), “how’s the book going?”

“Good,” he says, nodding, it actually is going good. The authors (Jane and Thor) are both well knowledged about the subjects. Jane more so on science, and Thor more so on mythology, but they know how balance the writing and illustration between the two. “I’ve never done illustration before but this it’s actually really fun,” He thinks it has to do with working with other people since all his commissions are done with little communication from clients. 

“That’s good, that’s good,” She sounds slightly distracted and it concerns Steve because if there’s anything Steve knows about Natasha it’s that she’s always entirely focused on whatever she’s doing. There’s no such thing as ‘half-assed’ to her. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” She answers,and Steve can’t tell whether it’s a lie or not, “are you busy next Monday?”

“I have classes until noon,” Steve says, “but after that no.”

“Okay, there’s this little cafe in Brooklyn called Cafe Grumpy, have you heard of it?”

Steve frowns and thinks, “Uh, no, but I’m pretty sure I can find it on Maps,” like he found everything when he came back to New York. Being away for basically ten years changes things.

“Can you be there around three?”

He thinks of the walk to the subway, the ride to Brooklyn, then finding place and nods to himself, “I’m pretty sure, I might be a bit late, though.”

“That’s fine,” She says, obviously not taking ‘no’ for an answer. 

“What’s this for?” Steve asks, crossing his free arm and resting it on the crook of his elbow, still standing up beside the couch when he could be sitting. 

Natasha’s quiet for a few seconds, “I trust you,” she starts, and Steve feels butterflies ignite in his stomach, “and I think it’s time the two of you met, again.”

“You mean-” Steve starts, his voice breaking, a lump forming in his throat.

“Yes,”

“-I can see Bucky again?”

“Yes, Steve,” this time he knows the smile behind her words is real, “he won’t be expecting you, though, this is a cafe he goes to almost everyday.”

Steve’s speechless for a few moments, too many emotions fluttering in his heart that he can’t control. He lowers himself down on the couch, placing his hand on Falcon's head when the dog settles himself next to him on the couch. 

“He’s a little bit scruffier than the last time you saw him,”

She makes it seem like he last saw him months ago, not years. 

“He usually sits in one of the corner tables,” she continues, ignoring Steve’s surprise, “act casual when you sit by him. Like I said, he’s not going to expect you.”

“I really get to see him again?” Steve feels tears well up in his eyes. He’s been waiting for this moment since the day Bucky didn’t come to the mess hall. It’s been ten years too long. 

“Yes, Steve,” she repeats, “Cafe Grumpy, three pm, next Monday, don’t be late.”

Steve nods, letting a tear fall, “Okay,” he hears the line click and looks down at Falcon. He pets Falcon for a while, drowning out the sounds of Sam and Riley laughing for his own thoughts. 

He’s going to see Bucky again. It’s actually going to happen. Everything he’s dreamed and prayed and wanted is going to happen. He doesn’t even care if Bucky loves him just as a friend because he gets to see him, talk to him, just _be_ with him again. And that’s more than he could ever ask for. 

“Hey, Steve,” Riley calls, the wooden floors creak slightly as he walks in his direction, “do you want any seasoning on your- Steve, what’s wrong?”

Riley’s suddenly kneeling in front of him, one hand on his face, the other making sure his hearing aid’s on, “Steve, what happened, what did Natasha say?”

Steve looks down at Riley and gives him a small smile, “I’m going to see Bucky next Monday,” he says quietly, voice almost a whisper with how choked up he is, “I’m going to see Bucky.”

“That’s good!” Riley says, his hand still on Steve’s face, a grounding technique Steve knows he uses on his patients, “Do you know when and where?”

Steve nods, still slightly dazed because _he’s going to see Bucky_. 

“Are you going to be okay if I go tell Sam the good news? Do you want me to tell Sam the good news?” Riley asks, speaking slowly. 

“I’m fine, Riley, just..” he searches his dazed brain for a word to sum what he’s feeling up but he can only find one, “I’m just happy.”

“And I’m happy for you,” Riley says, getting up and giving Falcon a few scratches on his head, he pauses and looks at Steve, obviously still concerned. 

“Go tell Sam,” Steve says, waving a hand in Sam’s direction, “I’ll be fine,”

Riley stares at him for a moment before leaving the living room. 

Steve looks down at Falcon and starts petting him again. He’s going to see Bucky again. He’s nervous and excited and worried at the same time. Nervous to see the man he’s loved for a long as he can remember for the first time in ten years. Excited because he gets to see Bucky again. Worried because he’s not the same Steve and he knows Bucky isn’t the same either but what if Bucky’s vision of Steve is that of before the war? Then what will he do? He can’t go back to that slightly-naive, scarless, nightmare-less, boy he once was. It’s not possible. 

But he can’t think about that right now. He needs to focus on the good things, and those things are that he gets to see Bucky, and Bucky gets to see him. Things they’ve both wanted for awhile now. 

He scratches behind Falcon’s ears and looks at the dog, leaning in and whispering, “I’m going to see an old friend, soon, I think you’ll like him,” the dog wags his bony tail, Steve smiles, “Me too, Falcon, me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cafe Grumpy is a legit place. Google it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll always want you,” he says, “I’ll never stop loving you. I didn’t stop before when you weren’t here and I won’t stop now.” Steve gives Bucky a small smile, “So, we can go back to how we were ten years ago, just less war this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Cafe Grumpy exists](http://cafegrumpy.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> (Very quickly edited.)

_Monday, November 2nd_

Steve’s nervous. Steve’s very nervous, and using Riley’s breathing techniques isn’t helping at all. He feels like he’s young again and has to take an emergency inhaler wherever he goes because he could burst out in a random asthma attack. He feels both like butterflies are swarming in his stomach and like there’s an iron bar around his chest.

The last few days have been torture. Waiting, anticipating, hoping, _dreaming_ , for this Monday. It’s been hard. He’s wanted it to come sooner but at the same time for it take it’s time because he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to do when he sees Bucky for the first time it what feels like forever.

Does he sit in front of him and greet him like the old friend that he is? Does he wait for Bucky to catch glimpse of him and make the first move (because he knows Bucky would never forget his face, just like he’d never forget Bucky’s, even in old age he’d remember it)? Does he call Natasha and ask her for help since she’s known Bucky during some of the time he’s been MIA? 

He’s so unsure and so nervous that he canceled his classes. Telling his students that he has an important matter to take care of, it’s not a lie, and he knows his students are probably rejoicing that they don’t have wake up early for his 8am class, but he wishes his nerves didn’t get to him as much as they are. Because now, after forcing himself to go back to sleep, he has an hour to kill. 

An hour that’s going to do the killing instead of vise-versa. 

He figures he should probably freshen himself up, maybe take another shower, pick out some casual yet nice clothes. Not that he’s expecting anything from this meeting. Not that he’s expecting Bucky to want to look at the clothes wearing, or to care about how nice he smells. No, he’s not expecting any of that.. but he is. 

Steve’s only human. A selfish, self centered human, that’s thinking about whether or not Bucky still wants him like _that_ instead of thinking about how all these years of partial solitude has changed Bucky. Instead of thinking about how Bucky must have gone through something traumatic, or at least scary, to have the government do what they did. Instead of thinking about the well being of his best friend he’s thinking about the well being of himself. Of himself and his too big heart that he wears on his sleeve. 

He knows his heart’s on his sleeve, and that’s okay. But he wishes he could cover it up today. Hide it from Bucky, maybe even protect it. Because he knows the moment Bucky does something that Steve’s missed, that Steve’s dreamed of, his heart isn’t going to be on his sleeve. It’s going to be a neon sign above his head, flashing how much he still loves Bucky, how much he misses and wants him. And that’s not what reuniting with Bucky is about- at least not right now- and he doesn’t want to scare him away. He doesn’t want to make Bucky run for the hills because there’s a chance that Bucky might not love him back, or just might not want that right now. 

But he also needs to protect himself. He needs to be prepared for the worst. He needs to be able to shield himself at a moment’s notice if Bucky were to tell him he just doesn’t feel like that anymore. He needs to be able to smile and nod and keep talking to Bucky like normal because this is about seeing his best friend again. This is about being there for Bucky who might be a little chipped around the edges because life hasn’t been fair to him, who needs a best friend right now. And Steve’s willing, more than willing, because they were best friends before anything, they were best friends while they were lovers. So he can compromise with his heart, he’s okay with that. 

Steve sighs and rolls over on his bed to look at the time. He needs to leave his apartment in an hour, now would be the best time to get dressed. With another sigh, he pushes himself off the bed and goes to his closet. 

Instead of dressing in something obviously over-dressed for a cafe, he pulls out a nice pair of dark-wash jeans that both Sam and Riley forced him to get during that time he was trying out the dating sphere, and a light blue button down. It’s almost like what he wears during class- sans all the fading and stains- so he figures it’s appropriate. Since it’s a little chilly outside he pulls out his buttery-smooth, brown leather jacket and mentally decides to not take the subway and instead drive his Harley to the cafe. 

It’s been awhile since he’s taken her out for a ride and since his heart’s going to be a neon sign on top of his head he might as well show off a little.

And he’s not about to have the Go In Expecting Nothing You Selfish Asshole argument in his head again so he lays all his clothes on his bed and goes to take a quick shower.

* * *

* * *

Steve parks his bike outside of the cafe and takes in a deep breath. It’s ten after three and the butterflies are tearing at his stomach. He needs to push himself off his bike and walk into the cafe like he’s been there a dozen times before. He needs to subtly look for Bucky and quietly make his way over to him, he doesn’t want to make a scene but.. but if Bucky’s changed his mind and doesn’t want to see him, there might be two hundred pounds of crying man in the cafe. 

So, with the thought of finally seeing Bucky again and the three ‘good luck’ texts he got from Sam, Riley, and Natasha (Natasha’s with a smiley face, of course) in the back of his mind, he gets off his bike and goes into the shop. 

A little bell on top of the door chimes when he walks into the cafe and the smell of coffee fills his nose. It’s not an assaulting smell of burnt coffee, which he’s grateful for, but more of a soothing scent that slightly calms the butterflies in his stomach. The interior of the cafe’s as nice as he saw on Google Images, exposed brick walls, wooden furniture, little plants here and there, and long hanging lights. Music playing quietly from speakers in the ceiling. 

He doesn’t look into the back of cafe where Natasha told him Bucky would be sitting, just keeps up a casual pace until he gets to the register. Thankfully, the cafe’s basically empty, afternoon rush not hitting yet, he supposes. There’s a man about his age behind the counter in everyday clothes and a smile on his face as Steve approaches. 

“Hi!” The man greets, smiling wider, “What can I get for you?”

Steve looks up at the menu. There’s an array of complicated coffees and teas, and, thankfully, some of the simple stuff he favors for himself. He doesn’t want to drink a strong coffee and end up even more jittery than he already is but he doesn’t want to sit in front of Bucky without something in his hands to fiddle with, “Decaf green tea,” he says with a nod, pulling his wallet out from his back pocket. 

The guy nods back to him and rings him up, letting Steve swipe his card, “It’ll be ready in a minute,” then goes to presumably make the drink.

Steve, still not looking towards the back of the cafe, heads to the side of the counter and gathers his sugars and napkins. He carefully picks out three of the pink packets, one black stirrer, and two napkins, his hands shaking the entire time. 

“Here,” the man says from behind the counter, handing him a to-go cup with a sleeve, the tea bag’s tag hanging out. 

“Thanks,” Steve says. He takes his tea and heads back to the counter with the sugars. He carefully opens the cup up with shaking hands, steam rising along with the tea’s scent, and rips open the three sugars, pouring them in all at once, watching as the little crystals float to the bottom. He knows he’s stalling himself, but he can’t get a grip on his emotions right now and needs a moment. A moment to breathe in and out and stir his tea slowly before taking in a deep breath, throwing the packets and the stick away, and heading to the back of the cafe.

There’s a few people here and there, all of them doing something or the other with drinks in front of them, completely oblivious to Steve and his situation. He lets his eyes rake across all their faces, looking for something familiar, looking for a dimpled chin and blue-grey eyes, swallowing a gasp when he finds those two things.

Bucky- or the man he thinks is Bucky- has aged gracefully. He’s not that fresh faced twenty-something that Steve last saw, but more rugged and muscular. His hair’s long enough to frame his face, only just touching his shoulders, and Steve’s never seen it like that before. He’s always seen Bucky with hair cropped short and well kept, not artfully unkempt and slightly wavy like his mom and sisters. But he can get used to it. Just like he can get used to the stubble that’s probably always on Bucky’s face now, just like he can get used to having half his soul back.

Steve knows he’s staring, watching Bucky like some sort of stalker, cup of tea almost slipping from his hand until he gets a firm grip back on it. He takes in another breath, three seconds in, three seconds out, and walks over to Bucky’s table.

He clears his throat, “Is this seat taken?”

Bucky looks up from his laptop, startled slightly, and does a double take, “S-Steve?”

Steve gives Bucky a watery smile, emotions going crazy as they flip between wanting to cry and wanting to laugh, “Sure is Buck,”

They both stare at each other for a few moments. Steve’s now able to get a good look at Bucky without looking like a stalker or trying to see through Bucky’s curtain of hair. Like he thought before, time has done Bucky nicely. Sure, there’s dark circles under his eyes that weren’t there before, and he looks tired, but he’s still _Bucky_ , and that’s all that matters. No matter how long it look for them to get here, no matter if Bucky didn’t just come home after everything happened. Nothing really matters to Steve right now, just the fact that Bucky’s alive and breathing. 

“Steve,” Bucky whispers, like he can’t believe that Steve’s actually in front him, like he didn’t write a book just so this could happen.

Steve, still standing, slowly brings his free hand up, letting Bucky anticipate the move, and rests it on the juncture between Bucky’s shoulder and neck, “It’s me, Buck, I’m here,”

Bucky looks back at him with an all too familiar look in his eyes, the look that their mom would call ‘Steve Hung the Sun’ look, the look that Steve got before he got a kiss, “You’re here,” he whispers, his voice sounding far away, like he can’t believe it.

Steve nods, his eyes tearing up, and squeezes the hand on Bucky’s neck, “I am, and so are you,”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods, sniffling, bringing his hand up to rest on Steve’s, “I’m sorry for not coming home,” 

Steve takes a moment to relish in the warmth that is Bucky’s hand, it’s everything he’s wanted and missed for ten years, before shaking his head, “You had your reasons, I’m sorry for not finding you sooner,” sure, when he first found the book he was a little pissed that Bucky hadn’t just came home but Steve’s not going to make Bucky feel guilty over something in the past, over something he had no control over. 

“All that matters is that you found me and we’re here now,” Bucky says, his voice hoarse, a tear slipping down his cheek, he lets out a short laugh and looks away from Steve to stare down at his lap, “God, I’ve wanted this for so long, I can’t believe it’s real.”

“Same here, Buck,” Steve nods, turning his hand so they can lace their fingers together, tears finally falling from his eyes, “guess we really are soulmates, huh?” He doesn’t mean to let that slip from his mouth, but it does, and he’s about to apologize and back track but then Bucky laughs. He laughs real, and rough, and like everything Steve’s wanted to hear for ten years. 

“We’re too stubborn to let something like fate get in between us,” Bucky says, little giggles spilling from his mouth, after a moment of Steve being silent from taking in the laugh, Bucky nods to the seat in front of him, “sit with me?”

Steve’s torn between sitting down and standing up but holding Bucky’s hand, and Bucky senses that. 

“Oh,” Bucky says, like Steve’s dilemma isn’t ridiculous, he uses his free hand to shut his laptop and push it to the end of the table next to the wall, and rests the hand on the table, palm open.

Steve smiles at him gratefully, untangles his hand from Bucky’s, and slides into the seat in front of him. He sets his tea down on the table and places his hand on top of Bucky’s who promptly takes hold of his fingers. They both stare at each other for a while, taking in what they’ve missed over these past years, taking in the aged features they both know all too well.

Bucky frowns a little and taps his own ear, “What’s in your ear?”

“Oh,” Steve says, repeating Bucky, slightly surprised that Bucky noticed the flesh-toned hearing aid, “a hearing aid,”

“Hearing aid?”

Steve nods and looks down at the glossy table, “My platoon ran into an IED, lost most of the hearing in my left ear when it exploded,” he looks back up at Bucky and shrugs, “got me an honorable discharge.”

Bucky visibly swallows, his hand tightening on Steve’s, “You stayed in after I.. left?”

Steve nods again, “You’re looking at Captain Steven Grant Rogers,”

“When did you leave?” Bucky asks, visibly doing the ranking math in his head.

“2009,”

“2009? That’s four years after I left, why didn’t you get out? Staying in was an unnecessary risk,”

Steve can hear the anger in Bucky’s voice, can feel it the way his grip tightened over the duration of this conversation, but he’s an honest man, he can’t lie to Bucky, “I had no reason to go back home,” it hurts to say out loud, but it’s the truth.

“No reason?” Bucky shakes his head, his hair flowing with the movement, and leans back in his seat, “You had mom, dad, Becca, Steve you had your whole life.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t have you now did I?” He looks at their entwined hands and sighs, “You’re my whole life, Buck, were back then and are now. If I hadn’t been forced to leave I would have still been overseas, doing the thing I was familiar with.” He knows it’s in his head, that there’s soft music playing in the cafe, but the cafe seems to go silent when he admits to Bucky what he’s only ever told his therapist. 

“Oh, Stevie,” Bucky sighs, moving himself so he’s closer to the table again, “I’m sorry for leaving you, I never wanted that to happen, I never meant-”

“No,” Steve says, looking at Bucky in the eyes, “you have nothing to be sorry for, whatever happened to you or me wasn’t- isn’t- your fault. I’m just..” Steve sighs and licks his lips, tasting the tea he drank earlier, “I’m just codependent, and I didn’t want to come back home without you. I was stubborn that you’d somehow some back to the platoon, I moved ranks hoping one day I would hear the truth of what happened to you, and that never happened.”

“Nobody ever told you what happened?” Bucky asks, looking concerned and confused.

Steve shakes his head, taking a sip of his still-hot tea, “All I know is what they told mom and that was-” Steve cuts himself off, feeling a lump form in his throat because this all feels so fake, this all doesn’t feel real, this doesn’t feel like it’s actually happening, “-that you died.”

Bucky squeezes his hand, “But I didn’t, Stevie, I’m alive.”

Steve looks up and smiles at the nickname, missing being called ‘Stevie’ in a way that wasn’t someone messing around with him, but actual love and care, “Can you tell me what actually happened? Only if you want to, though.” Steve needs to know, even if it’s not today that Bucky tells him, he needs to know one day how Bucky’s alive and seemingly well. How he’s not dead in a desert somewhere, how that casket and funeral service were all for nothing. 

Bucky nods, “I can tell you now, it’s nothing too bad, are _you_ ready?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, giving Bucky’s hand a squeeze.

“Okay,” Bucky says, nodding again but this time to himself, “you remember how Fury asked for me that afternoon when we were by the rock?”

Steve nods, remembering how they were talking about Christmas and playing around. He remembers the heat from the stupid rock they’d sit on day in and out when they were on patrol, he remembers both of them freaking out when Fury went up to them, asking for Bucky. He remembers the last time he saw Bucky, no words exchanged, just Bucky’s nervous eyes and the worried feeling Steve got in his gut. 

“Well, it turns out that I really good scores in the shooting range,”

“You were always good at shooting,” Steve says, smirking at a grinning Bucky. 

“Anyways,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes at Steve, his face dropping to serious when he goes back to talking about what happened, “apparently my scores were good enough to get me sent on a solo mission,”

Steve feels his stomach drop.

“And long story short, there was a mole in our platoon that warned the militants about me, luckily high school track served me well and I was able to run my way back to the rendezvous point, but not without them screaming my name, letting the people from our platoon know I was compromised.”

Steve frowns at the table, he’s heard this story before. Not one hundred percent similar, but similar enough that it’s noticeable- “You wrote this in your book!”

Bucky, surprised, nods, “Yeah- wait, how do you know about my book?”

Steve looks back up at Bucky, holding back a smile at the cute face Bucky’s pulling, “How do you think I found you?”

Bucky shrugs, “Coincidence, I dunno’, how did you find me?”

“Well, I was given your book by a friend-”

“Coincidence, see,”

Steve rolls his eyes and continues, “and I noticed that the book was basically my life from your eyes-”

“I really missed you while I was alone, Steve,” Bucky says, no longer playing, pure honesty and love in his words.

Steve squeezes his hand, “I know, Buck, ‘cause I felt the same,” they both give each other small smiles for a minute before Steve goes back to his story, “and so, I told my friend that I thought it was you-”

“That you thought your dead boyfriend wrote a romance novel over you and his love life,” Bucky asks, his voice deadpan.

Steve blushes, mentally fist pumping in his head because Bucky still considers them boyfriends, “Yes, he’s a very understanding friend. Anyhow, him, his husband, and I-”

“Your friends are married?” Bucky asks, a little twinkle in his eye.

Steve sighs, ignoring the annoyance from being interrupted for being happy that he’s with Bucky and Bucky’s actually talking to him, holding his hand, “Yeah, their names are Sam and Riley and they’re very domestic, they have a pit bull named Falcon that’s the sweetest dog on earth, you’ll meet them sooner or later.”

“I will?” Bucky asks, smiling so wide his cheeks must hurt, and it’s a contagious smile because now Steve has one stretched across his face.

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging, “and maybe we could go on double dates with them?” He’s being courageous and hopeful and taking a leap into territory that might not be crossable yet, but Bucky, of course, takes a leap with him.

Bucky grins, leaning across the table, “You askin’ me out on a date, Stevie?”

“You sayin’ yes, Buck?” He’s missed subtle flirting with Bucky. The little grins Bucky throws at him and the shy looks he throws back, both of them carefree and having fun.

“I’d never say no to you, Stevie, you know that,”

“Do I?” Steve asks, not flirting anymore, he doesn’t know where they stand. Sure, Bucky said yes to a date, but does that mean he can be sweet on him now? Does that mean they’re both taken now? Does that mean he gets Bucky back in all the ways he’s wanted. 

“You do now,” Bucky says, nodding, “I still love you, I always will, and if you’ll have me again we could go back to how we were ten years ago?”

Steve wishes there wasn’t a table between them so he could kiss Bucky, but there is, so he has to make due, “I’ll always want you,” he says, “I’ll never stop loving you. I didn’t stop before when you weren’t here and I won’t stop now.” Steve gives Bucky a small smile, “So, we can go back to how we were ten years ago, just less war this time.”

“No, war this time,” Bucky grins, “now back to your story,”

Steve takes a moment to find his place and calm his heart, “Okay, so we tried looking for you through your pen name but found Natasha instead and it so happened that she was having a singing in DC the weekend coming up, so we went.” Steve explains how he showed her a picture of the two of them to convince her and made a deal to communicate with her until she believed that he wouldn’t hurt Bucky, which is how he’s here now. 

Bucky shakes his head, “I should have figured Nat would have something to do with this, she kept asking me if I was gonna’ be here today, asking questions about you, always texting someone even though Clint was in the room with us, I should have seen it.” He looks back up to Steve, “I wish she would have told me, though, but I’m glad we’re here now.”

“I’m just glad she believed me and didn’t think I was crazy,” Steve says, huffing a laugh.

“She believed my story, even though it was the most made-up sounding thing in the universe,” Bucky pauses, a flash of concern in his eyes, “you don’t mind me writing a book about us do you?”

Steve shakes his head, “No, we all cope in different ways and this one was yours.”

Bucky nods, concern gone and replaced with a smile, “Tell me about the family,”

Steve mirrors Bucky’s smile and goes on to telling Bucky about Becca and her work in NYPD and the guy she swears she doesn’t have a crush on. He tells Bucky about their mom and how she retired from her job as a school nurse and instead spends her time baking at home for her ever growing group of customers, and about George who’s still teaching science at the high school down the street. He tells him about how the brownstone is still the same but with modern appliances, how Becca still lives at home but is thinking about moving closer to the department she’s stationed at, much to their mom’s dismay. He tells Bucky about everything and nothing that’s going on with their family and only stops when he see tears slip from Bucky’s eyes.

“You okay, Buck?” Steve asks softly, Bucky’s hand clenched tight in his own.

Bucky nods, wiping his eyes and cheeks with his free hand, “Yeah,” he sniffles and looks up at Steve, a smile now on his face, “I’m just happy to finally hear about them, about you, it’s been so long.”

Steve hesitates for a moment, then speaks, “Do you think you want to see them sometime soon?”

“I know I want to,” Bucky says, his voice confident and sure, “I just don’t know when’s a good time.”

Steve nods, and bites his lip, worrying it, “How about thanksgiving?”

“Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah, it’s coming up soon and I could just tell mom I’m bringing a date.” Steve shrugs like it’s nothing, he knows it’s a lot and if he were Bucky he’d be nervous as hell, but one of them needs to act confident. 

It’s Bucky’s turn to worry his lip, he does it for a few moments before it turns bright and red and so utterly kissable, but Steve controls his urges, “You think they’re gonna’ hate me for not coming home?”

Steve feels his heart break for Bucky, so he pulls Bucky’s hand up and kisses his knuckles, “Nobody could ever hate you for what the Army made you do, or for hiding because after a while that was all you knew,” and Steve’s speaking from his personal experience of staying in the army because there was no Bucky back in Brooklyn, because all he knew was the military and not civilian life,“if anything they’re gonna’ love you more than the last time they saw your ugly mug,” Steve jokes, bringing Bucky’s hand back down to the table and hopefully breaking the tense mood.

“Well,” Bucky chuckles, looking down at their entwined hands, “distance is supposed to make the heart grow fonder,”

Steve smiles, “That it does,”

* * *

* * *

By the time they leave the cafe Steve’s tea is far from hot and the circles under Bucky’s eyes have slightly disappeared. 

They walk out into the cool autumn air, Bucky with his laptop bag over his shoulder and Steve with his hands in his pockets. They’ve exchanged numbers already, after all the heavy talk, but Steve still feels like once he lets Bucky go he’s never going to get him back. It’s ridiculous and almost petty, but he’s allowed to be this way since he just got Bucky back. 

The air’s slightly awkward where neither of them know what to do, it’s not like they’re a new couple on their first date, nor is it like they’ve been together for years. The relationship itself isn’t new, but this, _them_ , right now, together in 2015, is a foreign as it was when they first decided to go from Best Friends to Boyfriends.

“That yours?” Bucky asks, nodding to the lone motorcycle parked on the curb.

“Yeah,” Steve nods, blushing slightly, “it was an impulse buy when I first got back.” 

They walk up to the bike, Bucky extending his hand to brush the caramel brown paint job, letting out a whistle, “She’s a beauty,” he brings his hand up to brush the leather seat, “I remember you always wanting one,”

“Really?” Steve’s surprised, he only mentioned it once or twice when they were younger and it was always just a thing for young boys to want motorcycles. Fast and dangerous being the two best thing in the world to boys.

Bucky nods, letting his hand drop from the bike and taking a step back, turning to Steve, “Well..”

Steve kicks an imaginary pebble, “Well..”

They’re both quiet, staring at each other like they were earlier. Unbelieving and hopeful.

Bucky breaks the silence, “I should be heading home,” his voice is quiet, almost silent in the dizzying sound of cars zooming by.

Steve nods, “Me too, do you want a ride?” There’s a hopeful peak in his voice because all he wants is more time with Bucky, and driving him home will give him that but Bucky shakes his head.

“I literally live around the corner,” He says with a shrug, “and I’d invite you up but I know you have class tomorrow and I don’t want to rush things, not when we have all the time in the world.”

Steve understands, he’d cancel class if Bucky asked him too, but Bucky wants to take things slow, and in a way Steve does too. Sure, he wants to dive into this found-again relationship and drown in it but they do have all the time they want and need. They have their whole lives to make up what time they’ve lost and rushing that would just cheapen it. 

“So, call me tomorrow then?”

Bucky hums for a moment, looking out to the street before looking back at Steve, “How about dinner tomorrow? I know it’s Tuesday and you have classes until Thursday but..” Bucky pauses, biting his lip and taking a step closer to Steve, “How about I come to yours when you get out and make us dinner?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, they’re so close Steve can smell the coffee Bucky had earlier, he can smell whatever cologne or shampoo he has on, he can feel his warmth radiating off him, “I’d really like that.”

“Text me your address?” Bucky asks, his voice as distracted as Steve feels.

Steve nods and closes in the last few inches with his lips. 

The kiss is soft and warm, just their lips pressed against each other, both of them finally _feeling_ each other. Steve brings a hand up to Bucky’s hair, tangling his fingers in it, while Bucky rests his own hands on Steve’s hips. They stay like that, their lips touching, breathing each other in, for a few moments before Steve pulls back. He rubs his nose against Bucky’s, smiling when Bucky chuckles, pressing one quick kiss to Bucky’s lips before untangling his fingers and taking a step back.

“So tomorrow then?” Bucky’s voice is slightly rough and breathless, a nice flush spreading across his cheeks.

“Tomorrow,” Steve nods.

Bucky hesitates before squeezing his hand then walking a few steps backwards with a happy smile on his lips before turning on his heel and making his way down the sidewalk.

Steve watches as he goes, letting out a sigh he knows would be described best as ‘dreamy’ with a stupid smile on his face. 

_Tomorrow._


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I swear, kiss ya’ once and you go all dumb,” Bucky says, shaking his head, “wonder how you’re gonna get when we do a whole lot more than kissin’.”
> 
> “Shut up,” Steve says, blushing.

It seems that other than pure love and adoration, the most common emotion Steve feels when it comes to Bucky is _nervous_. 

He was nervous when he was going to meet and talk to Natasha about Bucky, he was nervous when he was going to meet Bucky for the first time in ten years, and he’s nervous now as he waits for Bucky to come over to his apartment. Sure, between yesterday and this evening they texted and Bucky even called to ask what Steve wanted for dinner- to which Steve replied with whatever Bucky wanted- but talking and texting on the phone are very different from actually seeing each other. So Steve does what he normally does when he’s freaking out or nervous, he calls Sam.

“Hey,” Sam answers, unknowing to the panic going on in Steve’s head. 

“Hey,” Steve replies, his voice wavering slightly as he takes in the apartment he ran home to clean.

“You okay, man?” Sam asks, finally catching Steve’s nerves and Steve’s not sure what the answer is.

Sure, he’s _okay_ , this might be one of the best nights of his life other than yesterday, but he’s nervous. His hands are shaking ever so slightly as he holds on to the phone, “I’m okay..” he finally replies, taking a set on his couch, “just nervous,”

“Nervous? Oh! Bucky’s coming over tonight, right?”

Steve nods, “Yeah,” right when he got home after meeting with Bucky, last night, he called Sam and Riley. They both listened as he retold the evening’s events, as he dreamily talked about Bucky and how they were a thing again. He told them what Bucky went through and why he couldn’t come back home, and finally told them that Bucky was coming over tonight. To which the both of them made lewd jokes and sexual innuendos at. 

“You excited?” Sam asks, a smile obvious in his voice.

Steve looks around his living room, “Yeah, but it’s being taken over by how nervous I am,” he leans his head against the back of his sofa and stares at the ceiling where the fan’s unmoving and probably collecting a fine layer of dust due to its disuse.

Sam scoffs, “Dude, it’s your best friend-slash-boyfriend. So what you guys haven’t seen each other in about a decade? Everything’s gonna fall back into place. If you guys talked like nothing happened yesterday then it’s gonna’ be the same today, got it?”

“You think?” Steve asks, he knows it’s just Bucky but at the same time it’s _Bucky_ , and he’s not over it yet. He’s not sure when Bucky being alive will be something normal to him, when he’ll stop having dreams about the day Bucky didn’t come back to base.

“Dude, everything’s gonna be fine.”

Steve stays quiet for a minute, still looking at one of the fan blades, “Do you think putting new bedsheets on the bed was too forward?” Steve smiles as Sam laughs.

“No,” Sam says, still laughing, “it was quite gentlemanly... you think he might stay the night?”

Steve shrugs a shoulder, “I’m not expecting anything, I just thought it was a good idea.” Steve slightly hopes Bucky will stay over, not that he’s going to force them to sleep in the same bed, but it’ll be nice waking up with another body in the apartment, seeing him off to work. Of course he’ll take the couch if Bucky doesn’t say otherwise, but even that will be more than he’s ever hoped for.

“It’s all gonna’ be fine, man,” Sam repeats, as if hearing Steve’s thoughts, “We’re gonna’ meet him one day, right?”

“Definitely,” Steve doesn’t think he could keep Sam and Riley apart for long if he said no, and Bucky sounded genuinely excited about the two of them yesterday, “we can go on that double date you guys always pushed for.” The double date they never got and were probably never going to get if not for that book. 

“Ask your boy if this weekend’s a good time, I’m thinking my grill needs to be used again.”

“Will do,” Steve says, nodding, “I think he’ll like Falcon,”

“Everyone likes Falcon,”

“Falcon likes everyone,” Steve counters.

“True,” Sam says, probably with a shrug.

Steve opens his mouth to reply when there’s a knock at his door, “I gotta’ go, Sam, Bucky’s here.”

“Good luck!” Sam yells into the receiver, making Steve wince, before hanging up.

Steve looks at the _Call Ended_ screen for a second before getting up and walking to the door. He takes in a deep breath, smoothing down the sweater and jean combination he’s wearing, before opening the door. 

Bucky smiles at him, hair windswept and cheeks red from the cool November air. He’s in a blue pea coat that fits his body like a glove, dark wash pants that accentuate his legs, and boots that remind Steve of the military. Overall, Bucky looks amazing and Steve cannot deal with it. 

“Hey,” Bucky says, the smile pushing into his voice.

Steve, feeling like the nervous teenager he was when they first got together smiles and clears his throat, “Hey,”

They both take a moment, looking each other over like they did yesterday. Taking a moment to realize that this is all real, that they’re not going anywhere, before Steve realizes that Bucky has cloth grocery bags in his hands. 

“Oh!” Steve says, looking at the bags, “let me help you,” 

Bucky gives him a grateful smile and hands him the bags in his left hand, “Thanks,”

Steve steps out of the doorway and nods to the back of the apartment, “Kitchen’s this way,” he closes the door behind Bucky with his hip and flicks the lock.

“Wow,” Bucky says, slowly spinning in a circle, looking around Steve’s apartment, focusing on the art Steve has all over the walls. He stops spinning when he’s in front of Steve and nods his head at the nearest painting, “You really went somewhere with your art, didn’t you?”

Steve shrugs, shifting the bags in his hand, “I didn’t know what else to do and when I went back to school it seemed like the best path,”

Bucky nods, understanding, “I did the same thing with the writing,”

“I guess we both got to pursue our dreams after the army,” Steve says with a chuckle, and it’s true. Back then Steve’s dream was always to be a, quote-on-quote, professional artist., never to rise in the ranks in the army. And he always suspected that Bucky’s dream was to publish.

“That we did,” Bucky says, his voice sounding far off, before snapping out of it, “kitchen’s that way, you said?”

Steve nods, eyeing Bucky, “Yeah, I’ll show you,” he wants to know what that far off look was, where Bucky went in that moment, but he doesn’t want to pry, not when they just found each other, not when everything’s good right now.

The apartment isn’t huge or particularly swanky but Bucky continuously ‘ooo’s when he sees something or the other that he likes, and lets out a low whistle when he walks into the kitchen. 

“Stevie,” Bucky says, setting his portion of the bags down on the counter, he runs his hands across the marble before moving over to the island and poking at the hanging pots and utensils, “this is the kitchen of my _dreams_.”

And, well, even though the rest of his apartment isn’t swanky, he might have bought it for the kitchen and view from the second bedroom-turned-office. 

Steve shrugs, blushing, “It’s nothing, Buck.”

“The counters are fucking marble and not that fake plastic shit,” he moves away from the island and knocks on the counter, “this is the real deal, and you have an island, who has an _island_ in a New York apartment?”

“Okay, so I might have splurged on the kitchen,” Steve says, rolling his eyes, “it’s not that big ‘a deal.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and pulls the bags Steve’s still holding out of his hands, he sets them on the counter and unpacks them, talking as he does, “Yes, it is.”

“Buck, no it ain’t-”

“Remember our first month or so in the army,” Bucky says, still unpacking.

“Yeah,” Steve nods, because he remembers being scared shitless and just wanting to go home. He remembers being on watch with Bucky for the first time and both of them staring at the stars for a few minutes, dreaming.

“Remember all the things we said we were going to do when we got out?”

“Yeah,” Steve repeats. He remembers them because he did some of them. He traveled through the ‘States, going to see the Grand Canyon, going to both Disney theme parks, eating steak in Texas, going to Niagara Falls and getting drenched. How could he forget?

“One of them being an apartment in Manhattan,”

“With a big kitchen for you to cook in,” Steve finishes, he moves over to the island and takes a seat on one of the stools because _oh_. He unconsciously bought he and Bucky’s dream apartment, “I unconsciously bought our dream apartment,”

Bucky finishes unpacking the groceries and turns around so he’s facing Steve, nodding, “That you did,”

Steve looks down at where his hands are in his lap, “I’m sorry, Buck, I-”

“What’re you apologizing for?” Bucky asks.

Steve shrugs, “I couldn’t ever get over you,” he stares at his hands, flexing his fingers, “and I guess when I bought this apartment our dream was in the back of my mind,” Steve flinches, out of surprise, when Bucky takes his hands and kneels down in front of him. 

“That’s nothing to apologize for,” He says, sounding so earnest and knowing that Steve’s inclined to believe living out he and his supposedly-dead-lover’s dreams is something normal. Bucky looks away for a moment before looking back up at Steve, “I wrote a freakin’ book while I was missin’ you, about you, _and_ I got it published, if anyone should be apologizing it should be me.”

Steve shakes his head and leans down so their foreheads are touching, “That book helped me find you,” Steve says, “without it I would still be here, thinking you were dead.”

“Then none of us have anything to apologize for,” Bucky says with a smile, he leans up and presses his lips to Steve’s before moving away, “now how about you help me cook dinner?”

Steve’s still a little lost in the kiss when Bucky gets up and heads back to the counter, “What?”

Bucky snorts and tosses an onion at him, Steve catches it, “Cut that,”

Steve looks down at the brown onion, a little dazed, and nods. 

“I swear, kiss ya’ once and you go all dumb,” Bucky says, shaking his head, “wonder how you’re gonna get when we do a whole lot more than kissin’.”

“Shut up,” Steve says, blushing.

* * *

* * *

Much like when they were on missions together, they cook together seamlessly. Both of them reading each other’s movements, moving around each other in the kitchen like a dance, balancing each other. 

At times they end up side by side and nudge each other in the ribs with their elbows instead of focusing on whatever they’re doing. They talk about whatever comes to mind, laugh at the bad jokes they make, smile dopily at each other when they catch eyes, and occasionally peck each other on the lips- Bucky a little more courageous than Steve, but he gives his all and kisses back when kissed.

By the time dinner’s done Bucky’s thrown off his coat and shoes and Steve’s stripped his sweater off so he’s in his undershirt- a little bit of scarring peaking out of the collar, but Bucky doesn’t ask so he doesn’t mention it. They’re both a little sweaty from standing over hot dishes on the stove with the heating on, but a little sweat’s nothing to them after being in the desert for all those years. When they finally get around to plating the meal- after eating bits of the steak out of the pan, and attacking the mashed potatoes once they were done- they’ve both already started nursing beers and have that pleasant alcohol warmth going on in their stomach. It’s great, it’s more than Steve could have ever asked for, and he’s so goddamn happy he can’t stop smiling. 

“I talked to Natasha,” Bucky says once they’re both sitting, unopened beer bottles settled next to their opened ones, steak knife and fork in hand. 

Steve looks up from where he’s drenching his steak in A1 (a five star chef could cook the steak and he’d drench it in A1), “What about?” Because, really, she’s his editor and best friend, it could be anything and they’re not back to that mind-reading point in their relationship. 

Bucky takes a bite of his steak, potatoes on the fork too, “About why she didn’t tell me she met up with you,”

“Oh,” Steve says, he’s not sure what else to say. He understands all her reasons for keeping him from Bucky and not telling Bucky about him. It was for Bucky’s emotional safety and so she could get a feel of who Steve was. It made sense. 

“I’m not mad at you, since it was her idea,” Bucky puts his knife down, fork still in hand, “but I wish she would have told me she’d known, or told me _something_. I wish she wouldn’t have interrogated you, like it was her decision who should be in my life or not.”

“She didn’t interrogate me,” Steve feels the need to defend Natasha for some reason, maybe it’s because without her he would have never gotten to see Bucky, or maybe it’s because she’s something of a friend now, “I understand that it was kinda’ shitty for her to do, but it wasn’t an interrogation.” Even though for a while it felt like one, even though she asked questions it took months for even Sam to ask.

Bucky gives Steve a _Seriously?_ face, “Steve, she made you keep in contact with her everyday and decided- on my behalf- when you should get to meet me, don’t you think I should have been the one to do that?”

Steve sets his own utensils down and nods, “Yeah, it should have and if I had found a way to get to you directly I would have but Natasha was the only way.” Steve pulls his beer closer and scratches at the label with his nail, “She cares, she might have an odd way of showing it but she does. And if she decided I wasn’t good enough I would have found a way to you, you know I wouldn’t give up.”

“I know,” Bucky sighs, “it’s just that we could have done this a month ago, we both could have stopped waiting a month ago.”

Steve reaches across the table and places his hand on top of Bucky’s, a mirror to yesterday at the cafe, “But we’re here now, and that’s all that matters.”

Bucky smiles, “You were always the rational one between the two of us,”

“Unless I was getting into a fight,” Steve notes, taking his hand back- which should be a crime, he should hold Bucky’s hand forever now, but their socked feet are touching under the table and they need their hands to eat, so he guesses it’s okay. 

“Unless you were getting into a fight,” Bucky nods, “then I was the rational one, saving your ass.”

Dinner continues like that, both of them bringing up memories the other probably wants to forget. Sometimes they ate in silence, their feet touching, sharing smiles across the table. They stayed at the table long after their plates were empty, both of them leaning back in their chairs, finishing the lukewarm dregs of their beers until Bucky got up to walk around Steve’s apartment, socked feet silent against the wood.

Steve gets up to follow him, ignoring the dirty dishes for Bucky’s curiosity.

“When’d you go here?” Bucky asks, poking at the assortment of knick-knacks Steve has lined on one of the shelves of his bookcase.

Steve picks up the Colorado shot glass, staring at the happy font and blue river, “Whenever I had leave from army I didn’t go home,” Steve says, not looking at Bucky, “I would use whatever pension I didn’t send to Becca, get in this beat up car I owned, and drive around America.” He puts the glass down and pokes at the Mickey Mouse bobble head he got when he went to Disneyland, “It was my way of grieving, I guess.”

“Did you ever go home before you were permanently discharged?”

Steve shakes his head. He can feel Bucky’s eyes on him but he doesn’t want to look at them. Not when they could be filled with disappointment or guilt.

“Oh, Stevie,” Bucky says before pulling Steve into a hug. 

Steve gratefully takes the hug, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s torso, pressing his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck. 

“I’m sorry it took so long for us to find each other,” Bucky says, rubbing circles into Steve’s back.

Steve shakes his head, “Not your fault.”

“I know,” Bucky mutters, still rubbing circles into Steve’s back.

Steve’s not sure if Bucky does know or not- that none of this is his fault. But he can’t force Bucky to believe that this isn’t his fault. Maybe over time it’ll happen but not now. 

Time heals, as they say.

* * *

* * *

“It’s getting late,” Steve says, they’re both settled on the couch. Steve nestled in the corner, Bucky nestled between Steve and the couch.

Bucky hums and lets his head loll back to where it’s resting on Steve’s shoulder, “Can I stay the night?”

Steve chuckles, “As if I’d kick you out,” he shakes his head, his hands playing with Bucky’s fingers, “need to borrow some clothes?”

Bucky nods, “Yeah, I would have brought some but I didn’t want to be too forward.”

Steve’s mind goes back to his washed sheets, he shakes his head in response to Bucky and the thought, “Nah, I think we’re the same size anyways.”

Bucky brings a hand up to pat Steve’s head, “I think you got an inch or two on me, pal, height and width.”

“You callin’ me fat?” Steve asks, mock hurt in his voice.

“Nah,” Bucky says, waving a lazy hand in the air, “callin’ you built,” he takes a moment to think, “built like a house, a brick house,”

Steve snorts, leaning his head against the back of the couch, “Nice, Buck.”

They’re quiet for a moment, Steve with his hands resting on Bucky’s stomach- from what he can tell it’s just as muscular as before, maybe even more, not like Steve really cares. Bucky could have lost all his muscle mass and gained lovehandles where the v of his hips once was for all Steve cares. As long as Bucky’s safe, well, and happy, then so is Steve. 

Bucky yawns, breaking Steve out of his thoughts, “Lemme’ get you those clothes,” Steve pats Bucky’s side, chuckling when Bucky groans as he sits up on the couch and looks at Steve like he betrayed him, “We’re too old to be sleeping on the couch,” Steve notes, pulling his legs out from where one of them was wedged between Bucky and the couch and the other from underneath Bucky’s own legs, “you’ll thank me later.”

Steve pulls himself off the couch, smiling like a dork when Bucky latches onto his hand, letting Steve help him up from the too cushy cushions. Bucky follows Steve around as he checks the door locks, cuts off the lights- both of them completely ignoring the dirty dishes- and finally makes his way to his room. He knows Bucky’s curiously eyeing the closed doors they pass in the hallway, but that can be for another day. Right now it’s almost midnight and they should be going to sleep or Steve’s going to be teaching his morning class half awake. 

He pushes open his bedroom door and flicks the switch to turn his bedside lamps on, the room washing in a warm glow instead of the bright lights from his fan. Like earlier, Bucky lets go of his hand to take a look around the room, staring at some canvases Steve has hung on the walls, pausing to look at an old picture of Sarah Steve has on the bedside table, and completely stopping to pick up an old picture he has of him, Bucky, and Bucky’s family right next to Sarah’s.

Steve turns away, both to give Bucky a moment and look for some clothes for the both of them to sleep in. He pulls out two sets of sweat pants and shirts, unsure if Bucky sleeps with a shirt off like he used to, but completely knowing that he’s sleeping with his shirt on- even though he usually doesn’t- because he doesn’t want Bucky seeing his scars. 

It’s not that he’s ashamed of his scars, not really, but more so that he doesn’t want Bucky to see them. Sure, some of them peek through the collar of his shirt, but Bucky hasn’t mentioned them, but the ones along the top of his left arm and torso are much worse. They’re webby, puckered, and in more places along his side than he can count. He doesn’t want to see the guilt in Bucky’s eyes, or the disgust he knows won’t be there but worries about. 

Steve picks up the clothing items, his shirt-slash-shield one of them, and turns around to face Bucky. He’s not sure what he expected to see- maybe Bucky silently crying at the old photo, maybe Bucky just staring at picture- but Bucky laying sprawled out in the center of his bed wasn’t one of those thing. 

“You comfortable?” Steve asks, snorting, tossing the sweats and shirt at Bucky’s head.

“Yep,” Bucky says, popping the ‘p’, catching the clothes when they come flying at him. He stays laying on the bed for a moment before swinging his legs off the bed and standing up, “Bathroom?”

“First door on the left,” Steve says, grinning when Bucky walks past him and blows him an over-exaggerated kiss. 

Once Steve hears the bathroom door close he quickly strips his clothes off, throwing them in the hamper, and throws on the fresh shirt and sweats. Out of habit, he swipes some deodorant on, and sits on the bed. He’s still not sure whether Bucky wants them to sleep together or not so he doesn’t get comfortable on the bed, just sits, fiddling with his fingers, letting his toes dig into the plush carpet of his bedroom. His head snaps up when he hears the bathroom door open, and sure enough, Bucky comes in shirtless with as much swagger as he had when they were young.

And Steve’s breathless. Earlier when he thought Bucky might have gained more muscle isn’t even a _thought_ anymore, it’s a definite. Bucky’s arms are toned and muscular, his stomach ripples with abs, and the v of his hips are more defined than Steve thinks his ever could be. He looks like a goddamned model and Steve tells him just that.

Bucky chuckles, unused shirt still in hand, looking oddly bashful, “I had a lot of time on my hands,” he shrugs, “no better time to get in shape than then.”

Steve lets his eyes look over Bucky’s abs and arms before flicking them up to Bucky’s eyes, “Want me to sleep on the couch?” Might as well get it out and be over with it rather than dancing around the situation.

Bucky snorts like Steve’s asking an obvious question, “Stevie we’ve had sex before,” he deadpans, setting the shirt down on Steve’s dresser, “we didn’t break up by choice, we’re both old enough to share a bed,” he pulls back the covers and climbs on the side of the bed closer to the window, “and if you count all the years we were romantically together before shit happened it would add up to somewhere near ten years,” he leans over to the lamp on the side he’s claiming as his own, apparently, and cuts it off, “so you’re gonna’ sleep in the same bed as me and cuddle me like the war never happened.”

And Steve does just that. He takes a moment to properly cut the lights off with their switch before sliding under the covers and spooning behind Bucky. He rests his head on Bucky’s pillow, Steve’s few inches of height helping him curl around Bucky, his arms wrapped around Bucky, pulling him in closer. Steve presses his smile into the back of Bucky’s neck when Bucky pushes back into him and rests his on arms on top of his. 

They’re both quiet, the only sounds in the room are their breathing, the humm of the central heating and the cars outside. It’s nice, warm, _loving_ , and Steve drifts to sleep in minutes, no thought of nightmares lingering in his mind when he has the source of his best dreams in his arms.

It’s perfect.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think Steve’s too bulky to be a spy,” Riley points out, making all of them laugh.
> 
> “How about damsel in distress?” Sam asks, chuckling when Steve throws his napkin at him.
> 
> “He could be a Bond Boy!” Riley says through a laugh.
> 
> Bucky gives Steve a heady once over, “He’s too bulky to be a Bond Boy, but he could be Bond himself.”
> 
> Steve blushes and rolls his eyes, “Shuddap,”

After the first night Bucky stays over, it seems to open Pandora’s Box. A good kind of Pandora’s Box, though, one filled with love and happiness instead of terror and sorrow.

Steve’s not sure if Bucky ever really goes back to his own apartment for longer than an hour or so. He knows Bucky _goes_ back to his apartment, if the things Steve’s never seen before littered around his apartment tell him anything, but he doesn’t know if Bucky ever _wants_ to go back. And he’s not sure how to phrase that question. He doesn’t want to seem like he’s kicking Bucky out because he’s not, he never would, but he already gave Bucky his spare key and cleared out space in both his dresser and closet for him.

The apartment’s filled with Bucky. Bucky’s clothes, Bucky’s belongings, Bucky himself. There’s a Macbook with stickers all over the case that Steve would never buy on the coffee table in the living room. There’s an extra pair of tennis-shoes by the front door along with two other pairs that Bucky claims are his favorites. Instead of just sketchbooks laying in random places, there’s journals, some are the normal spiral kind that one buys at the dollar store, some are more sophisticated Moleskins, others have elaborate designs on the front with ribbon bookmarks flowing out the bottom. There’s flavored beer in the fridge next to Steve’s pack, there’s more icecream than he’d ever buy in the freezer (when he asks about it Bucky shrugs and tells him it was on sale), and food other than cuts of meat and veggies in the fridge. 

Steve’s favorite place, though, (other than everywhere) that’s filled with Bucky is the spare room he set up his mini-studio in. Instead of the chair beside the window collecting dust because Steve never sits in it, it’s finally getting some use. Some nights, when Steve thinks he’s going to have a nightmare, he’ll slip into the room, trying to make as little noise as possible, and settle at the easel. He usually does this when Bucky’s already asleep, not wanting to wake him or keep him up, but- like the few times Steve’s done this- Bucky will always follow.

At first Steve protested. He told Bucky to go back to sleep, not to worry about him, that he’ll go back to bed too, but none of his bargaining worked. Bucky would just roll his eyes, tell Steve to shut it, and plop down on the blue armchair. Some nights Bucky will have his laptop, other nights he’ll have a notebook and pen. Steve never asks what Bucky’s writing, just like Bucky never asks to see what Steve’s painting, but it’s nice. They do their own things in silence, the only sound coming from Bucky being either pen on paper or his fingers against his keys, the only sound coming from Steve being whatever medium he’s using against canvas or paper. They both stay in the room, sometimes Bucky dozes in the chair, until Steve feels better and takes Bucky’s hand as they clean up then go back to Steve’s- slowly becoming _their_ \- bedroom. 

It’s nice, it’s domestic, it’s everything Steve’s ever dreamed of and more.

* * *

* * *

_November 11th_

It’s Veterans Day, and there’s no escaping it. Every channel on TV proclaims the day and how to honor a vet. Social media has it plastered with heart breaking and tear jerking story about vets who got to come home and visit their family. Even Google had a little doodle of men and women in uniform. 

Usually, Steve would go over to his mom’s or they would come to his and have a small dinner. It was a quiet affair filled with food and joy and a tad bit of sorrow for the fallen. But this wasn’t any normal Veteran’s Day. This time Bucky was around, not dead, and not too happy with the army. 

The last Veteran’s Day they had together was before Bucky was claimed KIA. The army provided them with a nicer dinner than usual, there was a live performance, and the president- Bush, at the time- had a pre-recorded video to thank them for fighting for their country. Both him and Bucky were young, the war hadn’t scared them yet, and proud to be a part of ‘America’s finest’.

Steve is still proud, he still accepts the ‘thank you for your service’s that come from people that know he served, he still has his uniform pressed in his closet, and his medals hung proudly in his hallway. He’s proud, but Bucky, not so much. 

Bucky didn’t explicitly tell him that he wasn’t too happy with it being Veteran’s Day, but he could see it. It was all over the way Bucky would frown at the TV when a commercial or story came up. It was in the way he’d huff every time he pulled up Google on his laptop. It was in the way he didn’t mention the particular holiday to Steve. 

And Steve understands why- or why he thinks Bucky doesn’t particularly care for the army anymore. They wronged Bucky, made him hide away until the war was over, but when that day came Bucky was already years into being dead- he couldn’t just pop up out of nowhere. They made Bucky hide away from his loved ones and stay in what was almost solitude for all those years. It’s screwed up, what they did to him, and if Steve were in Bucky’s position he’d have some resentment too. 

Steve isn’t going to bring it up, or ask. Seeing as it’s only their second full day together, he doesn’t think he has a _right_ to. Not yet, at least. So, he leaves Bucky in the morning with a kiss on the forehead (Bucky’s unwant to wake up early survived everything he went through) and a _Love you, have a good day, eat whatever you want_. No mention of Veteran’s day, no thanking him for his service. Nothing.

Until he’s home and their mom calls, that is.

They both stare at the phone as it rings and vibrates between them on the couch. Steve, unsure what to do, and Bucky with wide eyes at the _Calling: Mom_ on the screen.

Bucky nudges the phone to Steve, “Answer it. Speaker.”

Steve takes the phone, giving Bucky one last look before- what feels like diving into the deep end- answering the phone, he presses the speaker button, cutting off their mom’s greeting, “Hey mom,” Steve says, eyeing Bucky.

“Happy Veteran’s Day, honey,” She says, and Steve can see the smile on her face. She’s always been proud of her boys and what they did for their country, even if it ‘lost’ one of their lives.

Steve smiles, “Thanks mom,”

“It’s no problem, honey, are you doing anything tonight? Want to come over, your dad’s willing to cook.”

Steve looks over at Bucky, who looks slightly choked up with a hand over his mouth, “Not today, mom, I’m not feeling too good,” he lies, “change in weather, I suppose.”

“You sure? I could make you some soup, pick you up and drop you off?”

Steve feels bad for lying and making his mom try and convince him to come over, but he really can’t. Bucky’s here and even if Bucky told him to go he’d decline, he’s spent enough Veteran’s Days with his mom and too little with Bucky, “No, mom, I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ll be good company today.”

She makes a concerned sound but gives in, “Okay, honey, but you’re coming for Thanksgiving?”

“You know I wouldn’t miss your cooking for anything,” Steve says, leaning back into the couch, taking the hand Bucky stretched out to him and squeezing it.

“Will Sam and Riley be joining us?” She asks, probably considering her grocery list and whether or not to add more food to fit Sam and Riley’s bottomless stomachs. 

Steve shakes his head, “No, they’re going to Riley’s, but..” he looks over at Bucky, “do you mind if I bring a date?”

Bucky mouths “Me?” and points to himself, Steve nods, smile widening when Bucky grins and blushes.

“A date? Steve, have you been dating and not told me!” 

Steve blushes, still looking at Bucky, “Kinda?” He doesn’t know what else he could say and he doesn't want to break the news that Bucky’s alive over the phone.

“Of course you can bring your date, Steven,” she sounds calmer, happier, “do I know them?”

Steve would say ‘yes’, because this is her son, but she knows pretty much anyone Steve could be dating, “No, I just met them,” which is slightly true, “but their family life is complicated so they don’t have anywhere else to go.” Which is true, kind of.

“Bring them over, we’ll treat them just like family, I’ll tell Becca not to interrogate them.”

Steve chuckles, both at Bucky who’s doing some sort of dance in his seat and at how often Becca’s used her interrogation skills on the wrong thing, “Thanks, mom.”

“No, problem, honey.”

“Hey, I’ll call you tomorrow, I think I’m going to order take out.” Which both are true, even if he has to deal with her trying to get details about his mystery lover out of him.

“Okay, love you.”

“Love you, bye.” He hangs up the call and looks up at Bucky, “You prepared for Thanksgiving dinner?”

Bucky nods, obviously excited, “Kinda’ worried about what’s gonna’ go down but definitely prepared. I spent years going over how this meetup would happen, I think I got it down.”

Steve’s not too worried, if they take it like he did it’s just going to be a bunch of tears and emotional moments, “This is happening, Buck.”

“I know,” He leans back into the couch and sighs, “it’s happening.”

Soon, fifteen days soon, Bucky’s going to meet his family again, and Steve cannot wait.

* * *

* * *

_November 14th_

“What if they don’t like me?”

Steve stops poking at the pasta and turns to Bucky, “What?”

Bucky, blushing, keeps stirring the sausage and sauce mixture, “What if Sam and Riley don’t like me?”

“You know they’re gonna’ love you, Buck,” Steve says, picking up the pot of pasta and water, “besides I’ve only told them the good things about you, so just act up to my words and don’t be a jerk,” Steve grins as he pours the pasta-water into the strainer. 

Bucky snorts, cutting off the burner and placing the lid over the pan, “If they’re able to get along with you then I should be no problem, right?”

“Exactly,” Steve shakes the extra water of the pasta, he pours the waterless pasta back into its pot and sets it back on the cooling burner. He turns to Bucky and grins, “though I think you’re a bigger pain in the ass than I am.”

“I definitely am,” Bucky says, wiggling his eyebrows.

Steve rolls his eyes and pushes Bucky in the shoulder, “Jerk,” he moves out of the way before Bucky can push back at him and leans against the sink, “we should invite Natasha over one day.”

“You think so?”

Steve shrugs and crosses his arms, “She did a lot for the both of us, for one, and she’s your friend, for two.”

Bucky mirrors Steve, leaning against the counter top next to the stove, crossing his arms over his chest, “She kinda’ lied to me for a whole month, Stevie, I still don’t know how I feel about that.”

Steve nods, he knows that things have been tense between Bucky and Natasha. They’ve both been giving each other the silent treatment, taking to each other through Clint and occasionally Steve will send a message to Natasha from Bucky, then vise-versa. Steve doesn’t think what Natasha did was wrong, not really since it got him here, but she did leave Bucky out of the loop for a whole month. In Bucky’s eyes she dictated his life for that month, and Steve gets it, he’ll have Bucky’s back on whatever just like he used to, but he wishes they’d make up. 

“I know,” Steve says, watching as Bucky stares at the floor, “maybe just give her a chance? She had our best intentions in mind.”

Bucky looks up at Steve, arms still crossed, his eyebrows slightly dipped, “We’ll see.”

Steve nods, “That’s all I’m asking.”

The kitchen falls into silence, Bucky lost somewhere in his own mind and Steve watching Bucky in case he needs to pull Bucky out. Thankfully, it doesn’t come to that and there’s a knock at his door, breaking Bucky out of his slight trance. 

Bucky freezes for a moments before shaking his head and pushing himself off the counter, “I’ll get it,” he declares turning away from Steve and walking out of the kitchen before Steve can protest.

Steve’s not sure what to do, per usual, so he focuses on getting down plates and glasses from the cabinets. He knows Sam would have used his own key if this were any other situation, and he’s slightly grateful that he didn’t. Steve knows that Bucky isn’t frail or scared but he’d hate for Bucky to be taken off guard like a deer in headlights, which is exactly what would have happened if Sam just busted through the doors. He thinks all those years without much contact with the outside world slightly impaired Bucky’s reaction to meeting new people. Whether that’s good or bad, Steve isn’t sure, and he’s definitely not going to judge.

He smiles when he hears Sam and Riley greeting Bucky, their voices loud but welcoming, probably pulling Bucky into bone-crushing hugs instead of resting a hand on his arm like any normal person would do to a Vet- then again, they’re not normal. 

“Where’s Steve?” He hears Sam ask Bucky.

“In the kitchen,” he calls back, taking the lid off the sauce and giving it a good stir, making sure it’s still warm. It is. 

“Hey, man,” Sam says as he walks into the kitchen, Riley probably still with Bucky, “smells good.”

“It’s about time I make dinner, huh?” Steve’s pretty sure he can count the amount of times he’s cooked dinner for Sam and Riley in all their years of friendship on both his hands, whereas the amount of time Sam-and-slash-or-Riley cooked dinner for him is _countless_.

“Sure is,” Sam comes up behind him with the dishes he pulled down and starts plating the pasta, “how are you?” He asks, his voice slightly lowered.

Steve takes the first plate of pasta and nods, spooning on the sauce, “I’m good, really good, great, even.”

“And him?” Sam nods to where Bucky and Riley are in the living room, handing Steve another plate.

“I think he’s good, he hasn’t said or shown anything to tell me otherwise, and he’s basically living here, so,” Steve shrugs, poking at a sausage slice with his spoon.

“I’m happy for you guys, y’all deserve this,” Sam says, handing him another plate, “you two gonna’ go see the family soon?”

Steve nods, repeating the same motion of serving the sauce, “We’re going over for Thanksgiving.”

“That’s gonna’ be one hell of a Thanksgiving,” Sam snorts, handing Steve the last plate.

Steve laughs and nods, finishing up with the sauce, “I’m pretty sure this is the Thanksgiving that everyone’s going to keep bringing up,”

“Every family has one of those, your is just going to be a bit more Hallmark,”

“No kidding there,” It’s like something straight out of a book, almost like something out of Bucky’s book, if he thinks about it.

They take the plates to the dining room table, both of them smiling at their lovers as the two of them chat on the couch. Bucky listening intently, a smile on his face, while Riley tells some story that involves large hand gestures and an innocent throw pillow. They leave them be as they head back into the kitchen to grab utensils and drinks, Steve opting for a soda instead of beer like the other three are having.

Riley and Bucky are already at the table when they get back, both of them sitting across from each other, chatting quietly and smiling when Steve and Sam sit beside them. 

Steve hands Bucky a beer- the kind that emerged in his fridge one day and stayed- and a fork after he sets his own things down and smiles at him. They’re all quiet for a few moments, all of them tucking into their dinners and sipping at their drinks. The air isn’t tense or awkward, it’s nice and calm, like they’ve done this time and time again and not like a group that’s barely meeting. 

After a while Riley breaks the silence, “So, Bucky, how’s the writing?”

“It’s good,” Bucky says, pushing around a sausage slice with his fork, “I actually have a job offer, it’s not to write another book but it’s close,”

Steve, slightly surprised, turns to Bucky, “You do? What is it?”

Bucky chuckles nervously and takes a sip of his beer, “Well I only got the email this morning, and I meant to tell ya’ later, but they want me to guest lecture at NYU in the creative writing department.”

“That’s amazing, man,” Sam says, offering Bucky his fist to bump.

Bucky bumps it back.

“That really is Buck,” Steve’s slightly breathless, it’s like he’s living in a dream, “when do you go in for an interview?”

“Not until next month, and they want me to get a teaching certificate first,”

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Riley says, shrugging, “it shouldn’t take you too long either, do you have a bachelor's degree?”

Bucky nods, “Yeah, it was one of the first things I did,”

“How about masters?” Sam adds in, putting down his fork.

“Got that too, had lotsa’ free time on my hands.” Bucky says with a chuckle.

“Then it won’t take you long at all, right Steve?”

Steve nods, still surprised that Bucky did so much even while going through what probably was hell, “I got it a while back but I think it should be the same, I could help you out?”

“That would be amazing, thanks,” Bucky says, a genuine smile on his face, full of love and adoration and probably every other emotion that’s being mirrored on Steve’s own.

“ _This_ is amazing, Buck,” Steve finally says, the surprise still there but fading because this is Bucky, and no matter what Bucky pushes through and perseveres. So Bucky getting a masters’ degree _and_ writing a book shouldn't be as surprising as it was to him. It’s amazing that he did these things but nothing surprising. 

Bucky blushes and looks down at his plate, “It’s not much, Stevie, but it’ll let me bring in some money and write at the same time.”

“So you do have another book planned?” Sam asks, leaning back in his chair, obviously full from all the pasta and sauce.

“Yeah, my publisher thinks a sequel to _End of the Line_ would be good since I kind of left it open-ended, but they want more action since the first book appealed to both romantics and action-lovers.”

“Do you want to write it though,” Steve asks. He knows Bucky wrote the book so they could find each other again, it was personal and close to his heart, and making an action-packed sequel might lessen that.

“I dunno’, maybe?” Bucky shrugs and puts down his fork, he grins at his plate before looking at Steve, “It might be fun to write us as spies or something.”

“I think Steve’s too bulky to be a spy,” Riley points out, making all of them laugh.

“How about damsel in distress?” Sam asks, chuckling when Steve throws his napkin at him.

“He could be a Bond Boy!” Riley says through a laugh.

Bucky gives Steve a heady once over, “He’s too bulky to be a Bond Boy, but he could be Bond himself.”

Steve blushes and rolls his eyes, “Shuddap,”

Dinner goes on like that. Light banter making all of them laugh, clean up that involves more soap suds than necessary, and departing once it gets too late and Sam and Riley need to head home to Falcon.

“So we might get to work in the same general area together?” Steve asks, folding one of the throw blankets on the couch. 

Bucky nods, looking up at him from where he settled himself on the couch, “Yeah, how domestic,” he wrinkles his nose before laughing, making Steve chuckle. 

“We’re gonna’ be _that_ couple, I guess,” Steve throws the folded blanket on Bucky, he picks up his feet from one of the cushions and sits down, placing Bucky’s feet in his lap.

“Domestic and cute as fuck,”

Steve nods, smiling when Bucky hums in content as he presses his fingers into Bucky’s calves, “Domestic and cute as fuck.”

* * *

* * *

_November 18th_

“So what are we here for?” Steve asks, following Bucky into Bucky’s own apartment. It’s the first time he’s been here and he curious to see what’s inside.

“Well,” Bucky says, flicking on the living room light, “we need to throw out whatever science experiments are growing in my fridge, and I need to get some stuff.”

Steve nods, muttering, “Now I know why I’m here,” and looks around the apartment.

It’s small but nice. The living room and dining room, like his, are connected. There’s only basic furniture, hardly anything on the walls, but books and notebooks are littered around the space, making it feel homey and lived-in. Steve can see the glass doors that obviously lead to a small terrace, and an archway that most likely leads to the kitchen and hallway. 

He follows Bucky into the kitchen (small, checkered floors, nice, white cupboards) and stands in front of the fridge next to him, “So, what’s becoming sentient?”

“Everything,” Bucky snorts, taking another look at the fridge before going to the cabinet under the sink and grabbing some trash bags, he hands one to Steve, “throw away anything you think is bad,” he points to the freezer door, “I’ll tackle this beast.”

They get to work, Steve elbows deep in the fridge and Bucky in the freezer. There’s not much in the fridge that could have become sentient in these past weeks that Buck’s been staying with him, but there is curdled milk, dubious cheese, and a package of ham he doesn’t want to smell. He throws all of them away in the trash bag, out of sight out of mind. The contents in the fridge- minus the sentient things- are mostly condiments and juices that could last through an apocalypse. He sees Bucky out of the corner of his eye sometimes step away from the freezer and shake off his hands, the cold obviously getting to be too much for him but not telling Steve a word. So, he leaves it be, lets Bucky do his own thing until Steve feels the need to step in. 

Once they’re done- Bucky with red hands and a bag of freezer-burned contents, Steve with a smile on his face and a bag of sentient creatures- they take the bags out to the dumpster and throw them in. They nudge each other in the ribs with their elbows as they make their way back into Bucky’s apartment. 

“Now what?” Steve asks, standing in the middle of the living-slash-dining room with his hands on his hips. 

Bucky nods to the hallway, “I just need to throw some clothes in a bag and we can be on our way.”

“Why don’t you just move in?” Steve blurts. It’s been a thought on his mind since Bucky first started staying over, a thought he believed was a little too soon to ask. But now, with both of them being in Bucky’s book-ridden apartment, with a partially empty fridge, with a bed that hasn’t been slept on in days, and a closet that probably has only a few more pairs of clothes, it seems like the obvious question to ask. 

Bucky looks surprised, his eyebrows raised, hands on his hips in a mirror to Steve, “Really?”

Steve shrugs, “Only if you want to,” he lets his hands fall to his side and looks around the apartment, “I mean, you’re hardly here anyways, and we could slowly start taking your things over to mine- we don’t even have to live in mine, we could live here, or somewhere completely new, I just..” Steve trails off from his babbling, his heart’s racing, beating in his chest like a drum, “I just want to live with you, Buck. I want to keep waking up with you next to me, making dinner with you a night, I want to be able to go to work with you and come home with you. I want to take care of you when you’re sick or have a nightmare, I want to be able to just sit with you and be with you.. I just _want_ ” He doesn’t mean for all those things- those dreams- to come out, but they do, and there’s no taking them back.

“Steve,” Bucky says softly, taking the few steps to stand in front of him. He brings his hands up to cup Steve’s face, they’re still a little cold from the freezer and New York weather, but Steve doesn’t flinch, “I want all that too, I’ve kinda’ been waiting for you to ask me to move in.”

Steve looks up from where his eyes settled on the floor between their feet and looks into Bucky’s eyes, “Really?” 

Bucky nods and chuckles, “I mean, since we’re basically starting from where we left off this is the next step isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, laughing slightly, “yeah it is.”

* * *

* * *

_November 21st_

Steve’s not sure how they got here, really. He remembers both of them in bed, Bucky typing away on his laptop and Steve checking his emails on his tablet. They were both ready for bed, tired after the multiple trips they took from Bucky’s apartment to his, slowing moving Bucky’s things in. Both silent, the only sound being their breathing in the quiet apartment and Bucky’s fingers against his laptop’s keyboard. 

But now, tablets and laptops are thrown to one side of the bed, Bucky’s straddling his thighs, kissing him like there’s no tomorrow, and Steve going along with it. 

His hands are on Bucky’s hips, thumbs rubbing into the bare skin from where he’s shirtless, and his tongue is in Bucky’s mouth, running along Bucky's teeth and sucking on Bucky’s own tongue, making the other man moan. 

He brings his hands up to Bucky’s chest, rubbing along warm skin, feeling the muscles that weren’t there the last time they did this, letting his thumb nail catch on Bucky’s nipple, he himself moaning when Bucky arches into the sensation. 

Bucky’s hands drift from where they were tugging at his hair- a sensation _he_ never thought he’d be into but his crotch tells him otherwise- and drifts down to his neck, Bucky stops there for a few moments, making Steve chuckle when he finds a particularly ticklish spot. Bucky pulls back from the kiss, his lips red, and smirks, before he attaches his mouth to the skin on Steve’s neck. 

Steve lets his head fall back against the headboard, his eyelids fluttering, his body arching up into Bucky’s as Bucky licks and kisses the sensitive skin on his neck. The room’s getting hot, his skin burning with each kiss Bucky leaves, sweat building at his hairline, but he doesn’t want to stop. Not now, not unless Bucky wants to. And if the nips and licks and kisses his neck’s receiving are anything to go by, Bucky definitely does not want to stop.

He feels ever so slightly bad that Bucky’s the one lavishing him with attention, so he lets his hands go back to work. He rubs the sensitive nubs of Bucky’s nipples, giving them a flick with his thumb nail at times, smirking at the whine and bite Bucky gives when he stops- and boy, is he going to have to wear a scarf for the next few days to cover up whatever damage Bucky’s doing to his neck. He gives Bucky’s nipples one last flick with the nail on his thumb before letting his hands drift down the planes of Bucky’s skin. 

He can feel each ripple of muscle, each toned ab on Bucky’s stomach, each and every inch of skin that’s waiting to be kissed or touched by Steve. Each and every inch of skin that Bucky said has only been touched by Steve before, and that lights something dark and primal in him. His hands settle back on Bucky’s hips- Bucky’s mouth now working the other side of his neck- but he moves them down, fingers drifting along the soft fabric of Bucky’s boxers. He knows without looking that there’s a wet spot on Bucky’s boxers, he knows without looking- familiar from doing this so many times years ago- where to touch and rub above clothes that makes Bucky go crazy, and he does just that.

“Fuck,” Bucky moans into his neck, panting and arching into Steve’s hand where it’s rubbing steadily along his cock, “fuck, Stevie.”

Steve chuckles, “Like that, Buck?” he put more pressure on the heel of his palm, making Bucky moan into his neck, “Tell me what you want, Buck?” Steve asks, slightly breathless, he wants to give Bucky whatever he wants, whatever he needs right now. He can care less about his own aching cock, his own needs, he wants to take care of Bucky.

“You,” Bucky pants, pulling back from his neck, looking at Steve with his lust-blown eyes, “you,” he repeats, he moves his hands from his neck and runs them down Steve’s shirts, tugging up at the hem, “how about we get this off, first.”

Steve freezes. He feels the blood in his veins turn to ice, shame and embarrassment filling him instead of lust and want, and Bucky must feel the shift in the air or see the look on Steve’s face because a moment later he’s off Steve’s lap.

“Stevie?” Bucky asks, concerned, and takes one of Steve’s limp hands, “What’s wrong, baby?”

Steve stares at his lap, cock flaccid instead of hard, lust gone but emotions still burning under his skin. He’s told Bucky about his scars before, about how they’re puffy and ugly and all along his left side, but Bucky’s only seen the ones that peek out of his collar. He’s been careful not to put himself in a situation where he needs to have his shirt off around Bucky, out of shame and embarrassment even though he knows for a fact that Bucky would never speak negatively about them. He hides them, has hidden them, for years already. Years of not going to the beach or pool because strangers don’t understand- and if he does go to either he keeps his shirt on- years of rubbing ointments and lotion on them to keep them from itching in the summer heat or aching in the cool of winter, years of his scars being the only problem he hasn’t confronted head on. 

“My scars,” Steve starts, still looking at his lap, where Bucky just was, “they’re not pretty,” he doesn’t want to see the guilt or pity Bucky’s eyes, so he focus on the fabric of his sweatpants instead of anything else. 

“Oh, Stevie,” Bucky mutters, rubbing circles into the skin on Steve’s hand, “you know I won’t care right? I care that you got hurt, but not how they look, they’re a part of you and I love all of you.”

“But what if you do care?” Steve looks up at Bucky, “what if you see them and they’re worse than you imagined and you _do_ care?” He doesn’t mean to be so self conscious, but when Bucky’s sitting next to him, looking like a literal Adonis, he can’t help but do so. 

“Show me, then,” Bucky says, “and then I can show you how much I love you for _you_.” 

Steve eyes Bucky and nods, he knows he could decline and Bucky would drop the subject, but some part of him needs to see how much Bucky claims to not care. He needs to know that Bucky won’t look at him like he’s a monster if he wanted to walk around the apartment shirtless. He does know that if Bucky happens to make the slightest grimace, nothing will change. Sure, Steve might hurt a little, but he loves Bucky more than to leave him for something like this. 

Steve takes his hand back from Bucky and grips the hem of his shirt between his fingers. He inhales deeply, letting it out shakily before pulling the shirt up and off. He closes his eyes and leans back against the headboard, waiting for disgust, rejection, something from Bucky. Instead he gets the feeling of one of Bucky’s hands tracing his scars, mapping them out on his body with fingers.

“Lay down for me Stevie?” 

Steve opens his eyes and arches a brow at Bucky.

“Please?”

He nods at the please and moves away from the headboard so he can lay on his back. He watches as Bucky moves over him, settling himself on Steve’s hips like before. 

Bucky presses kisses at the scars, “How could I ever be disgusted by this?” he asks, one hand resting on the bed while the other lays lightly on Steve’s sternum, above his heart, “These scars show everything you’ve been through,” he mutters moving down Steve’s body as he kisses the skin, “These scars show me how close I was to losing you,” He presses his nose into the last bit of scar, right above Steve’s hip, and breathes in, “and how you survived.”

Steve keeps his eyes on the ceiling, tears slipping down his temples, “Thank you, Buck,” Steve says.

“For what?” He asks softly, moving back up so he’s looking into Steve’s eyes, long hair like a curtain around them.

“For being here, for being honest, for loving me,” he shrugs and brings a hand up to rest between the juncture of Bucky’s neck and shoulder, “for everything, I guess.”

Bucky smiles down at him, kissing his nose, “You’re such a sap but you’re _my_ sap, so it’s okay.”

Steve mirrors Bucky’s smile, “I love you so much, Buck.”

“I know,” Bucky says, “because I love you so much, too.”

“Scars and all?” Steve asks, already knowing the answer.

“Scars and all.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I feel like I’m on an op again,” Bucky mutters, looking up at the brownstone, “but this time it’s to infiltrate my family home.”
> 
> Steve rolls his eyes, “Don’t be so dramatic, Buck,”

“What if they don’t like me?” Bucky asks, again for the millionth time, holding onto Steve’s hand like a lifeline.

“They’re your family, Buck,” Steve shrugs, “they might freak out because you’re actually _alive_ but other than that, I think they’re going to be glad to have you back.”

Bucky nods, pout present on his lips, but Steve knows he’s just thinking and not actually whining or doing any sort of thing that usually comes with a pout.

They walk down the row of brownstones, the gates almost all matching, cars lined up against the curb where families are meeting in each. They decided against taking Steve’s bike, not wanting to bring attention to Steve showing up, or to _who_ exactly Steve’s date was, and Steve didn’t really want to deal with picking it up if he drank a few too many beers. So, instead they took a cab and had it drop them off at the corner of the street instead of in front of Bucky’s house. The walk in the cold Brooklyn air gave them time to breathe, time to think, before walking into what was going to be mayhem inside the Barnes and One Rogers’ home. 

“You ready?” Steve nods to the white gate they’re nearing, the only gate on the block that’s not black.

Bucky nods and lets out a shaky breath, “Might as well get it over with.”

Steve pushes the gate door open with the tips of his fingers, catching it before it could hit the fence and warn the family of their arrival. He lets Bucky in first and closes the gate behind him, still holding hands. 

“I feel like I’m on an op again,” Bucky mutters, looking up at the brownstone, “but this time it’s to infiltrate my family home.”

Steve rolls his eyes, “Don’t be so dramatic, Buck,” and tugs at his hand, “come on before someone opens the door first.” He knows Bucky’s nervous as hell, that Bucky would probably rather call his mom and tell her he’s alive instead, but he also knows that Bucky’s strong and should be able to see his family on Thanksgiving instead of being cooped up in a tiny apartment with only a book and memories to comfort him. He knows Bucky can do this.

They walk up the sidewalk and stairs, both of them taking in a deep breath. Bucky for nerves, and Steve because he remembers doing this walk alone in 2009, wishing Bucky was with him, praying that he’d somehow get back home. 

“We got this,” Bucky says quietly, shaking their joined hands, “nobody’s got this more than us.”

Steve nods, a small smile on his face because Bucky’s trying to comfort both of them, trying to ready both of them for what could happen when they walk through the door even though it should be Steve saying all the words of comfort and kindness to Bucky. They both take a breath in, releasing it with a chuckle due to their in sync-ness. 

Steve uses his free hand to get the house key out of his jacket pocket, and unlocks the door, letting in Bucky first. He closes the door with an inaudible click, and takes his coat off, smiling when Bucky does the same, old habits. He can hear football playing from the living room TV, and the sound of Becca and George talking, his mom probably finishing in the kitchen from the smell of it. 

“Ready?” Steve whispers, again, just making sure. 

Bucky nods, “Yeah, little bit nervous though.”

Steve takes Bucky’s hand again and squeezes it, “We got this, remember?”

Bucky snorts, “I did say it a few seconds ago.”

Steve rolls his eyes and nudges Bucky’s shoulder with his own. “Hey, Mom!” He calls out into the hallway, tugging Bucky along, both of them ignoring the picture of Bucky with the folded flag and death certificate that hangs as they pass, “We’re home!” 

It’s such a familiar phrase, that one, he and Bucky used to call it out every time they came home from school, came home from their old haunts, came home from a date or from the store, and when they came home from being on tour. Then it was just Steve who said it when he came home, it was Steve whose coat was the only one on the rack, it was Steve who would pause to look at the picture of Bucky, smiling at it as he passed because it was the closest he could get to being with Bucky again.

But, now, he has Bucky back. Bucky’s here with him, in their childhood home- Bucky’s home more than his, but his all the same- hanging his coat, and following Steve down the hallway, towards the smell of food.

“Hey, mom,” Steve says before walking into the kitchen, Bucky a few steps behind him, “got a surprise for you,” They weren’t sure how exactly to introduce Bucky, how to let his and their family know that he’s alive again, but springing on them seemed like the best option. They both didn’t want Steve to sound like he was crazy and casually mention Bucky being alive, but they didn’t want Bucky to wait outside while Steve told their mom. So this seemed like the best option.

“Surprise?” His mom asks, setting down the knife she was using to carve the turkey to pull Steve into a hug and kiss his cheek, “what kind of surprise? Where’s your date?” She looks behind him like his mystery date’s going to appear out of thin air. 

“A surprise you’re going to love,” Steve says, ignoring the question about the date because she’s going to see who exactly his date is in a few seconds.

“I swear if you gave in to Sam and Riley and bought a dog, I’m gonna-” She stops talking abruptly, her hand coming up to her mouth when Bucky chooses that moment to walk into the kitchen and Steve takes a step back, his arm coming around his mom’s shoulder in case she were to fall, “Bucky?”

“Hey, Ma’,” Bucky says sheepishly, tugging at the already long sleeves of his shirt.

“Bucky,” She repeats, holding a hand out like he’s a ghost and not something real in front of her.

Bucky slowly walks to his mom like he’s walking to a frightened animal, “It’s me, Ma’,” he stands close enough to where he can hold her outstretched hand, his eyes shining over with tears, “I’m home,” he says thickly, taking the rest of the steps forward to hug his mom, pulling in Steve at the same time.

They both wrap their mom in a hug as she cries, Bucky with his head resting atop of hers, eyes closed but tears still flowing, and Steve with his cheek resting against her hair, slightly rocking the three of them.

“Is this real?” She asks, her voice breaking, “I’ve dreamed of this before, is it real?”

Steve feel his lip twitch where he wants to cry, but breathes in instead, “It’s real, mom, I thought the same but it’s real.”

“I’m here, Ma’,” Bucky says, voice still thick, “it’s a long story but I’m here.”

Winifred nods but clings on to Bucky like he’s going to disappear if she doesn’t, and Steve knows how she feels. He knows how every night he holds on to Bucky like if he doesn’t he’s going to be gone in the morning, he knows how it kills him to leave for work in the morning when Bucky’s still asleep, he knows how he when he wakes up from a nightmare the first thing he does is make sure Bucky’s real, and he knows how when he loses Bucky in a store his heart beats faster in a panic. It’s unhealthy, he knows that too, but he’s still coping, he’s still getting used to living in a world where Bucky’s actually alive, so for these first few months it’s okay, but he knows soon he’s going to have to talk to someone about it. 

They break apart after a few minutes, Steve ripping off napkins to give to Bucky and his mom, the three of them taking in a deep breath. 

“You need to tell your sister,” Winifred says, taking a seat at the kitchen table, still wiping her face.

“I know,” Bucky says, tugging at the sleeves of his sweater.

“Go,” she says nodding at the door to the dining room, “and stop tugging at your sleeves, how many times have I told you that?”

Bucky looks down at his hands, surprised, “Old habits die hard, I guess?” 

“More like live forever,” Winifred mutters, nodding to the dining room again, “go tell your sister and dad, but don’t give them a heart attack.”

Bucky nods, and walks towards the dining room, “Steve?” he asks, looking like a lost puppy that wants to be guided.

Steve moves to follow Bucky, but his mom stops him, “You stay here,”

Bucky looks between his mom and Steve, like he wants to jump in and defend Steve against his mom’s word, but Steve shakes his head, “Go, Buck, I’ll be here. You got this, remember?”

Bucky nods, giving Steve one last look before leaving.

Steve turns to where his mom’s sitting at the table, her head in one hand. She nods to the chair adjacent to hers, “Sit,”

He pulls the chair out and settles into it, his hands clasped at his lap. He feels like he got him and Bucky into trouble and their mom’s talking to them separately because she knows if she talks to them together they’ll just defend the other. Which is true, they’re always willing to defend the other’s honor, no matter what.

“How did you find him?” She asks, no tiptoeing. 

“He published a book,” Steve starts, staring at the swirls in the wood on the table.

“He did?” She asks, sounding less emotional and more Proud Mom.

Steve looks up from the table and nods, smiling, “Yeah, Sam was actually the one to recommend it to me,”

Winifred smiles, ”I knew he was a godsend,”

“Yeah,” Steve laughs, ignoring the surprised but happy shouts going on in the other room, “well, the book was about Bucky and I’s life, well, more like relationship.”

“Which is how you knew he wrote it?”

Steve nods, “I knew nobody else could know our life like that. Nobody knew we were together during the war except you guys and some friends that we weren’t close enough to write a detailed book.”

“So you went looking for him?”

“Remember that time a few months back when Sam, Riley, and I went to D.C. for what I said was an art exhibit?”

She nods, “And we took care of Falcon.”

“Yeah,” Steve looks back down at the table, he feels the need to fidget, “we actually went because Bucky’s editor was doing a signing.”

“His editor?”

A nod, “Natasha,”

“Becca told me you were texting someone named Natasha, she thought that was your date,”

Steve snorts and rolls his eyes, Becca, ever the snoop, it’s no wonder she’s a cop, “Natasha is happily married, and I had to talk to her to get to Bucky, he didn’t know for some time that I knew he was alive.”

“And why didn’t he do the book signing?” She asks, leaning back into her chair.

“It’s complicated and he should be the one to tell you,” Steve sighs, mirroring his mom and leaning back in his chair, remembering that he’s at home and not being interrogated, “anyways, he and I met up in the beginning of the month, he’s in the process of moving in, and here we are now.” He look back up at his mom and rests his hand over hers on the table, “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner,”

“You had your reasons, like he did,” She says, motioning to where Bucky is, “I won’t blame either of you for that, not when it means I have my son back and my other son’s happier than I’ve seen him in a long time, are you two back together?”

Steve blushes, nodding, “Got back together the first day we met,”

“Didn’t I say you two were soulmates?” 

“That you did,” Multiple times, over and over again until both Steve and Bucky would whisper that to each other at night, _soulmates_ , who else gets to say that?

“He’s okay?” She asks, her voice on a more serious note.

“Yeah, as okay as he can be, I guess, but he’s not doing bad in the slightest,” Sure, Bucky’s had a nightmare or two, but that’s normal for a veteran, and it’s definitely normal for someone who had their life stripped away from them for years. Bucky, like Steve, has mild separation anxiety when Steve’s away or he’s away from Steve, but they’re getting through it together. They have each other, and next week they’re both going to a VA meeting together, they have each other to lean on and that’s all they could as for.

“And you, are you okay?”

Steve nods, “Best I’ve been in awhile, if I’m being honest.”

Winifred smiles, “I’m glad, honey.”

They’re both silent for a few moments, Steve’s hand over hers on the table, small smiles on their faces before she sighs, “Let’s go see what’s happening with your sister and dad.”

* * *

* * *

After Bucky explains what happened to him,

(“It’s like a fuckin’ movie,” Becca says, “your life is a fucking movie.”

“Becca,” Their mom warns, pointing a finger at her.

“Sorry for cursing, mom, and sorry for saying your life is a movie.” She rolls her eyes, acting like she’s twelve.

Bucky sticks his tongue out at her.

Steve figures Bucky’s always going to act like he’s twelve around his baby sister.)

and why the army had to falsely declare him Killed in Action,

(“So what happens when you actually die? Are they going to have to remove the decoy casket from your plot? Because I’m not giving you my plot and you and Steve are supposed to be buried together,” Becca asks, slouching down on the armchair she claimed as her own.

Steve had honestly forgot that he and Bucky have a plot together next to the rest of the Barnes family and his Ma’, so he says nothing, leaving the question to Bucky who rolls his eyes.

“Y’all can figure that out when I’m actually dead, not about to call up Fury and have him ask for my services again, we see how that turned out.”)

why he wrote the book,

(“Look, you guys would have found me sooner if ya’ read good literature.”

“Does romance count at literature?” Becca asks, coming back from the kitchen with a plate of rolls, tossing one at Bucky and another at Steve, they both catch them.

Bucky takes a bite out of the roll, chewing before swallowing, “My book is not some trashy Fifty Shades of Poorly Written Sex literature, it’s _classy_ , Becs, just ask Steve he read it.”

“I’m biased,” Steve says, mouth full of roll.

Bucky slaps him on the chest, “You’re supposed to stand up for me, tell her it’s not trashy.”

“I’m literally in the book,” Steve says, holding his hands up, one with half a roll in it, “I think that makes me biased,”

“No,” Bucky corrects, “ _Chris_ is in the book, last I checked you weren’t named Chris.”

“Last I checked the book was about our life,” Steve counters, shoving the roll in his mouth before Bucky could snatch it away.

“And our life isn’t trashy, if you say my book’s some trashy romance, you’re calling your life trashy by default, Becs.”

Becca rolls her eyes, “Whatever, I guess I’ll have to read it for myself, you got a copy?”

“Ye-”

“No he doesn’t,” Bucky says, covering Steve’s mouth with his hand, “support a poor author and buy my damn book, then tell all your copper friends about it so they can buy it,”

Becca rolls her eyes again, “You are definitely not poor, Bucky.”)

and what he’s doing now, 

(“You guys are going to be very domestic working together,” George says, he’s been quiet most of the time, probably taking in what exactly is going on, not crying like Winifred and not taking it like a duck to water like Becca.

“Yeah,” Steve says, blushing, “it’s gonna be nice.”

“A good change in pace from the last job we had together,” Bucky says, looking over at Steve where they’re cuddled up on the loveseat.

“Steven and Sam are going to help you get your education certificate?” Winifred asks, taking a sip from her coffee mug.

Bucky nods, “Yeah, might have to take a few teaching classes before I can get the actual certificate, but they’re willing to work with me since I’m a published vet,”

“They know about you being a veteran?” George asks, curious.

“Steve made me come clean to them about who I was last week, it’s safe now, and it’s easier to do things when you have a proper social.”

“And you get veteran’s benefits,” Steve says, “might as well reap those rewards after all they put you through.” He knows he does.

“True,” Bucky says nodding.

“Good thing you’re in different departments,” Becca says, “because if not y’all’d be all over each other.”

Bucky grins at her and Steve braces himself, “Steve has an office,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows, “nobody’s gotta’ know.”

Becca makes a face, “Gross.”)

they move to the dining room table for dinner. 

Steve and Becca help their mom bring the food out to the table while Bucky and George set it. The food smells good, it’s everything from turkey to potato salad to homemade pie. Steve and Bucky take beers from the pack of Steve’s favorite that’s always in the fridge, Becca drinks soda since she has to go on patrol later that night, and Winifred and George drink wine. 

They all settle themselves at the table, Bucky next to Steve, Winifred and Becca across from them, George at the head, and dig into the meal. 

It’s nice, familiar, homey, and everything that Steve could ask for. He looks up from his plate to Bucky who's talking to Becca and rests his free hand on Bucky’s thigh. It’s not a sexual move, not at all, but one that lets him be connected to Bucky even though his hands are occupied. Bucky looks at Steve for a moment while Becca chatters away, smiling back at him, putting down his knife so they can lace fingers. 

Their hands are joined on the table, the family’s complete again, Bucky’s slowly moving in, and Steve’s nightmares are slowing, it’s everything he could ask for and more. 

And on this Thanksgiving, he’s so fucking thankful.


	16. Epilogue

“What if he doesn’t say yes?” Bucky rolls the velvet box in his hand, butterflies eating at his stomach. He’s sitting on the edge of he and Steve’ bed, phone on speaker next to his thigh.

He hears two sighs, one of them clouded with static while the other’s crystal clear, “Bucks,” Becca starts, “you wrote him a fucking book, if he didn’t hear wedding bells when he finished it then he’s deaf in both ears.”

“She’s right, James,” Natasha pips in, her voice coming over through the static, “and besides, weren’t the two of you going to get rings to wear on your dog tags before everything happened?”

“Well, yeah,” Bucky says, opening the box to look at the simple silver wedding band, ignoring Becca’s _Really?!_ ,“but that was a long time ago, things are different now.”

Natasha sighs again, “You’ve been together for two years, James, I think you’ve both waited long enough for this moment.”

“And that whole _til the end of the line_ -” Becca lowers her voice, trying to mimic Bucky’s, Bucky rolls his eyes, “-spiel was pretty much you saying in sickness and health and whatever else they say when people get married.”

Bucky half nods, that is true, they’ve pretty much declared their vows to each other in every way possible. This is this the next step, “Okay,” he says, exhaling.

“Okay?” Two voices echo over his phone.

“He’s gonna love the ring, he’s gonna say yes-” he hears the front door open and the sound of Steve’s shoes hitting the wall where he’s kicking them off, “he’s actually here, so I gotta go.” 

“Good luck, James,” Natasha says, hanging up.

“Good luck, Bucks, call me after all the crazy engagement sex you guys are gonna have!” Becca says, hanging up before he can reply.

Bucky takes a deep breath and gets up from the bed, he slips his phone in his pocket and hold the ring box in one hand, “Hey, Steve!” He calls, heading to the door, “Got a surprise for you!”

The ring is heavy in his hand, but a good heavy- a steady heavy. He can do this, he _will_ do this, because no matter what, no matter what Steve’s reply is, it’s always gonna’ be _till the end of the line_.

_-Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, guys we're here! At the end! 
> 
> I'm so happy that this was the first multi-chapter fic I actually finished, and that I jumped the gun in September and decided to post it instead of waiting to complete the whole thing. I seriously could not have written this fic without all the love and comments from you guys and the help from my friends/sister when I got caught on a finicky part, but mostly you guys!!
> 
> Tbh, I never thought this fic would get the amount of response that it did or that people would be waiting each Sunday for a new chapter. But it happened and now we're at the end ~~of the line~~ and yeah, thank you for reading each Sunday and please send me some HCs or prompts if you guys would like any timestamps!
> 
> Also, if you liked the fic could you please reblog this awesome graphic my sister made me for this fic? It can be found on my tumblr [Here!](http://pesmenos.tumblr.com/post/135165146585/past-lives-by-earthseraph-pesmenos-complete)
> 
> Thank you, again, guys ^^

**Author's Note:**

> Follow [My Tumblr](http://pesmenos.tumblr.com/) for crying over stucky and drooling over Seb Stan.
> 
> Also, please reblog [This Post](http://pesmenos.tumblr.com/post/128491079550/past-lives-by-earthseraph-pesmenos-rating-m) if you liked the fic!


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